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SPENCER'S  BOSTON  THEATRE No.  LVII. 


ANNE      BLAKE. 

3  Pa 


IN     FIVE     ACTS 


BY 

WESTLAND     MARSTON, 

AUTHOR   OF   THE   PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER,    STRATHMORE,    PHILIP    OF 

FRANCE  AND  MARIE  DE  MERANIE,    GERALD,    A  DRAMATIC  POEM, 

HEART    OF   THE    WORLD,    AND    BOROUGH    POLITICS. 


WITH    ORIGINAL    CASTS,    COSTUMES,    AND    ALL    TUB 
STAGE    BUSINESS. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM    V.    SPENCER, 

12S  Washington  Street,  (corner  of  Water.) 


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(2) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA 


ANNE   BLAKE. 


ACT  I. 

Scene.  —  Hall  in  Toppington  House,  extending  to  the  back  of  the  stage, 
c.  doors  practical,  backed  by  view  of  the  distant  country. 

Enter  Lloyd  and  Davies,  c.  d. 

Lloyd.     Stir !  my  young  lady  will  be  back  at  noon. 
The  wind  cuts  this  spring  morning.     Quick,  a  fire  ! 

Davies.     For  her,  indeed  !     Sir  Joshua  and  my  lady 
Will  not  be  home  till  six  ;  and  for  Miss  Blake 
There's  your  own  fire.     What  serves  the  housekeeper 
May  do  for  her  to  warm  by.     Fire  for  her  ! 

(She  goes  out,  tossing  her  head  disdainfully,  R.  H.) 

Lloyd.     Hard-hearted  insolent 

Enter  Jillott,  k.  h. 
Dear  Mr.  Jillott, 

The  wine's  out ;  and  Miss  Blake  will  need  a  glass 
After  her  long,  cold  ride. 

Jil.     Why,  Mistress  Lloyd  ! 
Of  your  five  senses  is  there  one  remains  ? 
Shall  I  —  Sir  Joshua's  butler  —  make  a  journey 
Down  to  the  cellar  ?  open,  as  I  must, 
An  untouched  cask  ?  and  bear  the  further  labor 
Of  drawing  and  decanting,  all  for  her  ? 
For  Anne  Blake  !     Is  that  rational  ? 

Lloyd.     I'd  do  it 
For  any  creature  living  —  for  a  beggar, 
A  sweep,  a  Hottentot ! 

Jil.     Ah  !  there  we  differ  ! 

Lloyd.     But,  sir,  for  Miss  Anne  Blake,  remember  this  : 
She  is  your  master's  niece. 

Jil.     Sir  Joshua, 
I  know,  has  the  misfortune  to  be  called 
Her  uncle. 

Lloyd.     (Incensed.)     Why  misfortune? 

Jil.     Mistress  Lloyd, 

(3) 


4  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   I. 

Be  rational.    You  know  Sir  Joshua's  sister, 
Who  might  have  made  a  creditable  match,  -  - 
A  match  Sir  Joshua  prayed  for,  —  sunk  herself 
By  marrying  some  poor  devil  —  scribbler,  clerk, 
Tutor,  or  —  I  forget  the  man  !     What  followed  ? 
They'd  not  a  coin  or  crust.     She  must  have  starved, 
But  that  Sir  Joshua  received  her  here, 
With  her  puling  baby. 

Lloyd.     Ay,  took  child  and  mother, 
But  not  the  husband. 

Jil.     No ;  most  properly 
The  door  was  closed  on  him.     What  happened  next? 
His  wife,  —  Sir  Joshua's  sister,  —  ere  a  year, 
Frets  herself  out  of  life,  and  leaves  my  master 
This  squalling  wench  to 

Lloyd.     Shame  !     Poor  innocent ! 

Jil.     Poor  vixen !    From  a  babe  she  couldn't  bear 
Sir  Joshua  nor  my  lady.     Why,  she  failed 
In  common  gratitude. 

Lloyd.     For  what  ?     Harsh  words 
And  frowns  from  him,  neglect  from  her,  for  taunts, 
Imprisonments,  and  blows  of  angry  nurses, 
To  cure  her  temper,  till  she  half  became 
The  sullenness  they  called  her.     Yet  a  heart 
Opener  to  kindness  beats  not. 

Jil.     Poh,  poh,  poh  ! 
Hearts  are  low  things.     I  speak  of  manners,  Lloyd  ; 
And  hers  distress  me.     Yes,  you  did  good  service, 
When,  while  Miss  Blake  was  at  your  husband's  farm, 
You  snared  that  strolling  artist  ior  a  lodger, 
And  gulled  him  into  love  —  love  for  Anne  Blake  ! 
I  hope  he'll  take  her,  and  so  rid  my  taste 
Of  what  offends  it,  my  poor  lady's  nerves 
Of  daily  shocks,  my  master  of  disgrace  ! 

Lloyd.     Disgrace  !     Isn't  she  flesh  and  blood  like  them, 
And,  though  she's  poor,  their  equal  ? 

Jil.     Equal ! 

Lloyd.     Ay ! 

Jil.     Equal !     I'll  hear  no  more.     Such  sentiments 
Strike  at  the  root  of  order.     O,  you're  dangerous, 
A  leveller,  Lloyd  —  a  leveller  !     I've  no  doubt 
You'd  have  the  cow  boy  sit  at  table  with  us, 
And  pledge  us  in  his  pewter  '    Nay,  no  more. 

{He  stalks  out  with  great  pomp,  R.  H. 

Lloyd.     Why  not  their  equal  ?     Our  Sir  Joshua's  father, 
Though  London  alderman  and  baronet, 
Was  yet  a  trader,  nor  in  wealth  forgot 
The  means  that  raised  him.     There  be  two  extremes 
Of  men  that  one  can  bear  —  those  born  to  station, 
Who  take  it  graciously,  and  those  who  earn  it ; 
But  save  me  from  those  middle  honorables 


ACT   I.]  ANXE    BLAKE.  5 

That  have  no  root  in  custom,  yet  despise 

Their  honest  planter  —  labor  !     Had  Sir  Joshua 

Been  used  to  rank,  or  won  it  by  his  wits, 

He'd  not  have  shown  his  niece  such  spite  because 

Her  mother  married  humbly.     {Knock.)     A  knock  !  not  hers  : 

There's  too  much  nourish.     Her  knock's  sharp  and  bold, 

As  if  the  door,  too,  were  her  enemy  — 

All  but  poor  Lloyd  ! 

Enter  Llaniston  speaking  to  servant,  who  retires,  c.  D. 

Lh.n.     So,  so,  I'm  out  of  luck !     Good  day,  good  Lloyd  ! 

Lloyd.     Good  day,  sir. 

Han.     And  Sir  Joshua 

Lloyd.     Returns  to-night,  at  six,  sir,  with  my  lady. 

Llan.     {Abstractedly.)     Humph ! 

Lloyd.     {Aside.)     Now,  I  told  him  they'd  be  gone  a  week, 
And  thrice  within  the  week  he  comes  to  seek  them. 

Llan.     I've  called,  you  know,  on  business. 

Lloyd.     Will  you  wait  r 

Llan.     I've   not   a  moment.     (Goes   undecidedly  towards  the  door, 
centre,  then  returns.)     Can  I  see  Miss  Blake  ? 

Lloyd.     She's  out,  sir,  for  her  ride. 

Llan.     Humph ! 

Lloyd.     She'll  be  back,  though, 
In  an  hour,  or  half  an  hour,  or  less. 

Llan.     I'll  wait.     (Throws  himself  into  porter's  chair.) 

Lloyd.     (Aside.)   That's  odd  :  he  said  just  now  he'd  not  a  moment. 
How  can  she  help  his  business  ? 

Llan.     (Starting  as  from  a  revery.)     So  he's  dead  ? 
Her  father —  Miss  Blake's  father  ? 

Lloyd.     Sir,  'tis  like. 
He  crossed  the  seas  ere  she  could  lisp  his  name. 
All  trace  of  him  is  lost,  as  in  the  wave 
The  furrow  of  his  ship. 

Llan.     Poor  girl ! 

Lloyd.     Ah,  sir  ! 
Her  life's  had  little  sunshine,  little  soil ; 
But  she's  a  hardy  nature. 

Llan.     True. 

Lloyd.     She  has 
A  spirit,  sir. 

Llan.     I  know  it.     I've  heard  her  talk.     (  Walks  apart.) 
Spirit  indeed  !     Her  very  words  are  cuffs ; 
And  yet  I  like  them.     They've  a  health  that  suits  me ; 
Because  well  bom  and  rich,  forsooth,  my  life 
Has  been  all  tame  and  breezeless.     Gliding  servants 
Have  noiseless  done  my  bidding ;  tradespeople  — 
Forgetting  man's  a  perpendicular  — 
Have  crooked  when  I  approached  ;  often  even  woman, 
Whose  outside  should  be  mirror  to  her  heart, 
1  * 


6  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT    I. 

Has  feigned  the  glance,  the  motion,  and  the  blush 
Heaven  meant  for  instincts.     O,  all  these  have  closed  me 
In  a  dead,  sultry  noon  !  but  brave  Anne  Blake 
Blows  like  a  morning  gust  from  our  cragged  hills. 
I  breast  it,  and  am  man  ! 

Lloyd.     Hark  !  that's  her  pony. 

(Anne  heard  without,  c.  d.) 

Anne.     I  say  you  must,  for  the  beast's  sake,  not  mine. 
She's  hot.     Walk  her  round  gently.     Sirrah  do  it ! 

Enter  Anne  in  a  plain  riding  dress,  c.  d.     She  rushes  tip  to  Lloyd, 
and  flings  h«r  arms  round  her  neck. 

Is  it  not  shame  now,  Lloyd,  that  for  my  sake 
Dumb  things  should  suffer  ?     Though  poor  Jenny  smokes, 
The  groom  won't  walk  her  round  the  yard !     Of  course  not : 
She's  mine  !     (  With  great  bitterness.) 

Lloyd.     (Soothingly.)     Hush,  here's  a  gentleman  to  hear. 

Anne.     What  then  ? 
Is  my  tongue  to  be  jailed  because  he's  ears  ? 

Llan.     Rather  because  he  hears,  he'd  have  it  free 
And  speak  unchecked. 

Anne.     Nay,  your  tongue  forces 
Debts  on  me  which  my  body  pays.     See,  sir, 
Courtesies  for  compliments  !     Good  day.     (Going,  R.  h.) 

Llan.     But 

Lloyd.     (  Who  goes  after  her,  apart.)     Stay. 
He  speaks  you  softly. 

Anne.     Softly  !     So  your  lady 
Speaks  to  Sir  Joshua,  yet  I've  seen  him  writhe. 
Our  courteous  guests  speak  softly  when  they  stoop 
To  notice  the  dependent.     Who  has  ever  • 

Spoken  softly  to  me  but  to  mock  ?     Save  you  — 
You,  Lloyd,  and  —  him  ! 

Llan.     She  doesn't  deign  a  look. 

Anne.     Well,  has  he  come  ?     (Still  apart  to  Lloyd.) 

Lloyd.     (Archly.)     Who,  sweetheart  ? 

Llt&n.     (Aside.)     This  is  civil,  on  my  life. 

(He  turns  on  his  heel  and  walks  to  C.  D.) 

Anne.     Who  ?    Is  there  any  name  I'd  waste  the  breath 
It  needs  to  sound,  but 

Lloyd.     Thorold's  —  Edward  Thorold's !  — 
No  ;  not  yet  come. 

Anne.     Absent  again  for  weeks, 
And  still  he  hides  the  cause.     Nay,  I'll  not  murmur. 
I've  no  more  claim  to  his  dear  love  than  has 
The  heather  to  the  sun  ;  yet  how  I  dashed 
Down  crag,  through  wood,  o'er  plain,  in  hope  to  meet  him  ! 
I'm  in  full  time  ;  dependents  should  be  patient. 

Lloyd.     Nay,  taay,  pet ! 
(Anne  goes  out  dejectedly,  R.  h.,  Lloyd  accompanying  and  caressing  her.) 


ACT   I.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  7 

Llan.     So  she's  gone.     The  porter's  chair 
And  I  are  left  for  company.     {Looking  off.)     Here's  one 
To  make  a  third.     Why,  if  I've  eyes,  'tis  Thorold, 
My  hero  friend  from  India,  my  rare  compound 
Of  grave  and  gay,  whom  I  perhaps  more  love 
That  I  half  fear  him. 

Enter  Thorold,  c.  d. 

TJwrold.     Once  more  here.     What !  Llaniston  ! 
Away  from  London,  leaving  all  May-faix 
Under  eclipse ! 

Llan.     What  matters  to  a  world 
That  lives  by  gas  light  ?     What  took  you  from  London 
After  your  Indian  triumphs,  ere  a  maid 
Had  asked  your  autograph,  or  a  fond  mother 
Secured  you  for  a  breakfast  ? 

Thor.     {Smiling.)     Business,  business. 

Llan.     Ay,  true ;  I  recollect. 

Thor.     But  recollect 
Most  to  forget  —  my  name,  my  quality, 
And  chief,  all  points  between  us  that  affect 
Sir  Joshua. 

Llan.     I'm  pledged. 

Thor.     You  but  see  an  artist 
In  quest  of  beauty. 

Llan.     Good  !     I'm  on  a  quest 
After  the  grand.     Folks  call  the  rugged  grand : 
I've  found  the  rugged. 

Thor.     Snowdon  ? 

Llan.     No. 

Thor.     The  Peak 
Of  Cader  Idris  ?  the  Pont  Aberglaslyn  ? 

Llan.     No  ;  it's  a  she  —  a  girl.     D'ye  know  Anne  Blake  ? 

Thor.     {Starting,    but    quickly  composing  himself.) 
Anne  Blake  !  Sir  Joshua's  niece  ? 

Llan.     The  same.     Don't  laugh. 
I'm  that  girl's  slave ;  I've  seen  her  thrice. 

Thor.     Does  she 
Encourage  you  ?     (  Carelessly.) 

Llan.     Not  she.     She  pelts  my  heart 
With  such  force  from  her,  it  comes  back  again 
In  the  rebound.     I'll  win  her.     Ah,  you  know  not, 
When  women  have  well  chased  you  all  your  life, 
The  zest  of  giving  chase  to  one  yourself ! 
I'll  win  her  ! 

Thor.     Will  you  love  her  ?     {Laying  his  hand  on  Llaniston's  arm.) 

Llan.     By  my  hfe. 

Thor.     I  doubt  that.     Women  who  are  but  pursued 
For  the  pleasure  of  the  chase  are,  like  its  victims, 
Cast  off  when  captured ;  and  the  huntsman  lover 
Turns  to  new  game. 


8  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT    I. 

Llan.     {Taking  off  his  hat.)     I  thank  your  reverence. 

Thor.     A  wife,  my  friend,  should  be 
A  sweet  bird  won 

To  one's  breast  by  cherishing ;  not  a  wild  quarry 
To  be  hawked  down. 

Llan.     My  five  years  senior, 
I  bow  to  your  reproof.     In  truth,  dear  Thorold, 
I  own  its  justice.     But  don't  balk  this  passion. 

Thor.     Miss  Blake  will.     Were  it  otherwise,  you'd  tire 
"With  your  honeymoon  no  older  than  a  crescent. 

Llan.     A  challenge.     I'll  make  ready  for  the  lists ; 
Soon  shall  my  constancy  unhorse  your  scorn, 
While  I  cry  Victory,  Wales,  and  sweet  St.  Anne  ! 

(He  goes  out,  c.  D.) 

Thor.     I  could  not  tell  him  in  this  frolic  mood 
Her  heart  had  chosen  me,  her  friend,  preceptor, 
Met,  as  she  thinks,  by  chance.     Ah,  now,  dear  orphan  ! 
Not  for  thy  father's  memory  art  thou  loved, 
But  for  thyself.     She  guesses  not  my  station, 
Nor  that  I  knew  her  father  ;  but  her  soul, 
Which  chill  neglect  had  frozen,  at  one  touch 
Of  kindness  from  me,  thawed  ;  and,  though  the  current 
Foams  at  opposing  wrong,  its  waves  are  clear 
And  bright  with  glints  of  heaven  !     And  now  to  see  her. 

(  Turning,  he  looks  accidentally  through  window  at  side,  and  pauses.) 
Alas  !  my  eyes,  that  thirst  so  for  that  sight, 
A  while  must  wait !     Sir  Joshua  returns, 
And  I'd  not  meet  her  in  his  sight,  whose  taunts 
My  prudence  scarcely  brooks.     Brave  Anne,  bear  on,  — 
The  day  is  near  I  shall  have  right  to  shield  thee !  {Exit,  c.  D.) 

Reenter  Lloyd  and  Jillott,  r.  h. 

Lloyd.     Not  six  yet  by  two  hours,  and  here's  Sir  Joshua 
And  my  lady  back. 

Enter  Sir  Joshua  and  Lady  Topplngton,  followed  by  Servant  and 
Lady's  Maid. 

Serv.     (Timidly  approaching  Sir  Joshua.)     Your  coat,  Sir  Joshua. 

Sir  Josh.     Back,  sir,  —  know  your  place. 

Serv.     Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Josh.     Why  does  the  fool  stand  gaping  there  ? 
Why  don't  you  take  my  coat  ? 

Jil.     (  To  Servant,  who  hesitatingly  touches  the  coat.) 
Not  so,  you  country  loon ;  —  so,  there's  your  pattern. 

(  Takes  the  coat  from  Sir  Joshua  with  a  low  bow,  and  flings  it  at 
servant.) 

Sir  Josh.     Wait,  sir. 
The  cards. 

Lady  Top.     A  chair,  Lloyd.     My  poor  nerves  ! 


ACT   I.]  AXNE    BLAKE.  9 

Jil.     The  cards,  Sir  Joshua. 

JSir  Josh.     Are  these  all  ? 

Jil.     All,  sir. 

Sir  Josh.     (Glancing  over  the  cards.) 
Dobbs,  Evans,  Jones,  the  curate,  Andrew  Ray, 
From  Budge-row,  City  !     Stretch  of  insolence, 
Because  he  knew  my  father  !     Roberts,  Owen  — 
There's  not  a  name  worth  reading  in  the  batch. 

(Flings  down  the  cards  contemptuously.') 
No  callers  else  ? 

Jil.     Why,  no,  sir,  none  — 
Except  the  Earl  of  Conniston 

Sir  Josh.     Except 
The  Earl  of  Conniston  !     Dare  you  drag  in 
An  earl's  name,  a  real  earl's  name,  at  the  tail 
Of  fifty  nobodies,  with  an  —  except  ? 
Well,  well,  Lord  Conniston  called 

Jil.     At  the  lodge  gate,  sir, 
To  ask  the  nearest  cross  road  to  Llanberis. 

Sir  Josh.     Leave  the  room,  sirrah.      (Jillott  bows  and  goes  out.) 

Lloyd.     He  forgot  to  say 
Squire  Llaniston,  who's  home  from  London,  called. 

Sir  Josh.     (Troubled.)     Squire  Llaniston  ! 

Lady  Top.     (  Throwing  back  her  bonnet,  with  an  air  of  indifference.) 
Yes,  she  spoke  plainly. 

Lloyd.     And  he  called  three  times. 

Sir  Josh.     Three  times  within  a  week  !     Who  spoke  with  him  ? 

Lloyd.     Myself,  sir,  and  Miss  Blake. 

Sir  Josh.     (Horrified.)     Miss  Blake  ! 

Lady  Top).     (In  a  corroborating  manner.)     Miss  Blake. 

Sir  Josh.     Send  her  here  —  no  words. 

Lloyd.    (Muttering.)     More  spite  at  my  poor  pet.     (Goes  out.) 

Sir  Josh.     Well,  madam  ? 

Lady  Top.     Well,  Sir  Joshua. 

Sir  Josh.     You're  calm 
Upon  the  brink  of  ruin. 

Lady  Top.     Ruin  ?     (Still  calmly.) 

Sir  Josh.     Madam, 
D'ye  know,  or  not,  that  my  estate  is  mortgaged 
To  Llaniston  for  thousands  ;  that  last  year 
He  pressed  for  its  redemption  ;  that  he's  called 
Thrice  in  this  week,  doubtless  to  urge  repayment, 
And  that  to  meet  his  claim  I've  not  its  tithe. 

Lady  Top.     You  would  keep  hounds,  give  dinners,  bet  with  lords. 

Sir  Josh.     Zounds  ! 

Lady  Top.     Mind  my  nerves. 

Sir  Josh.     Nerves,  ma'am  !     You've  nerve  enough 
To  warm  your  feet  by  a  volcano  !  —  Well, 
The  money  was  my  own.     I'd  none  with  you  ! 

Lady  Top.     No  ;  but  you'd  family. 

Sir  Josh.     What  has  it  brought  me  ? 
I'm  shunned  by  the  whole  county. 


10  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   I. 

Lady  Top.     Dear  Sir  Joshua, 
Is  that  my  fault  ?     You  married  and  gained  entrance 
To  the  first  circles  ;  —  /  accomplished  that. 
They  cut  you ;  —  you  accomplished  that  yourself. 

Sir  Josh.     "  I'm  spited  eveiy  way  ;  here's  Llaniston 
"  Calls  thrice  and  sees  Anne  Blake.     It's  ten  to  one 
"  She's  sent  him  back  affronted.     O,  she's  here  !  " 

(Anne  enters  with  an  air  of  stolid  dejection,  R.  h.) 

Anne.     You  sent  for  me. 

Sir  Josh.     Yes. 

Anne.     Well,  sir  ? 

Sir  Josh.     That's  your  welcome 
After  my  absence,  is  it  ?     (A  pause.) 

Lady  Top.     (Sarcastically.)     Can't  you  say 
You're  glad  to  see  Sir  Joshua  ? 

Anne.     Must  I  say 
What  I  know  false  ? 

Sir  Josh.     You're  too  like  your  low  father 
To  be  grateful.     Would  my  house  were  quit  of  you. 

Anne.     It  will  be  soon. 

Sir  Josh.     Yes,  when  yon  strolling  sketcher 
Makes  you  his  wife.     Why  leaves  he  still  unfixed 
Your  marriage  day  ?     He  had  my  full  consent 
To  take  you  hence.     The  dolt  most  like  repents 
His  hasty  bargain. 

(Anne  shudders  and  utters  an  ejaculation  of  sudden  pain.) 

Lady  Top.     Nay,  you  use  her  hardly. 

Sir  Josh.     Let  her  not  chafe  me,  then.     Speak,  Anne  !  you've  seen 
Young  Llaniston  thrice  ? 

Anne.     The  fault  was  his. 

Sir  Josh.     What  errand  had  he  ? 

Anne.     A  fool's  !  — He  wasted  compliments  on  me. 

Sir  Josh.     What  was  his  business  ? 

Anne.     I  can't  tell ; 
I  wouldn't  hear  it. 

Sir  Josh.     Why,  you  never  turned  him 
Out  of  the  room  ! 

Anne.     No  ;  I  got  tired  and  left  it. 

Sir  Josh.     {Etiraged.)     She  turned   her   back  on  him !     He  left 
insulted, 
Enraged  beyond  a  doubt,  and  for  revenge 
He'll  claim  his  mortgage  promptly  ! 
(  To  Anne.)     'Tis  your  work, 
Yours  who  live  by  my  sufferance,  whose  least  crust 
Is  given  ! 

Anne.     Earned,  sir,  —  not  given ;  it's  but  the  price  you  pay 
To  taunt  the  helpless.     That  safe  luxury, 
Like  others,  must  be  paid  for. 

Sir  Josh.     Minx ! 

Anne.     (  With  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  passion.)     Be  sure 
You  shall  not  lose  ;  there's  one  shall  pay  you  back 


ACT    II.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  11 

Each  crumb  you  dropped  me  ;  or,  if  not,  I'd  put 

My  blood,  brain,  bones  to  hire  —  nay,  coin  you  guineas 

Out  of  my  life,  rather  than  keep  it  bound 

To  charity  like  yours.  {She  rushes  out,  K.  H.) 

Sir  Josh.     I'll  tame  you  ! 

Lady  Top.     Who  — 
Who  would  have  nerves  ? 

Enter  Jillott,  c.  d. 

Jil.     Sir  Joshua,  a  letter  — 
I  may  say  a  despatch.     Squire  Llaniston's  groom 
Brought  it  post  haste. 

Sir  Josh.     Out,  blockhead  !     {Exit  Jillott,  r.  h.)     As  I  said  ! 
Here's  the  warrant  of  our  doom.     He  asks  his  loans, 
And  I'm  a  beggar  —  you  too  !     {He  laughs  sarcastically,  then  opens 

the  letter.)     Have  I  eyes  ?  .  .   . 
There's  no  hoax,  'tis  his  hand.  .  .  .  Jove  !  how  I  hate  her  ! 
Yet  she  must  save  me. 

Lady  Top.     What's  your  news,  Sir  Joshua  ? 
Do  you  go  to  jail  ? 

Sir  Josh.     {Jocularly.')     No,  ma'am  ;  'tis  Llaniston 
Should  be  confined  for  life. 

Lady  Top.     For  what  crime  ? 

Sir  Josh.     Madness  ! 
But  it  makes  well  for  us.     He'll  not  press  now 
To  have  his  loans  repaid.  — The  fool's  in  love, 
In  love,  in  downright  love  !  — 

Lady  Top.     With  whom  ? 

Sir  Josh.     Anne  Blake  ! 

END   OF   ACT  I. 


ACT  II. 

Scene.  —  Library  in  Toppington  House,  overlooking  the  grounds. 

Sir  Joshua  discovered  on  l.  h. 

Sir  Josh.     Yes,  yes,  I  thank  my  stars  ;  but  that  I  grudge 
The  vixen  so  much  luck,  this  chance  falls  bravely. 
Llaniston  in  love  with  her  !     A  pedigree 
Old  as  the  hills,  and  as  much  gold  as,  melted, 
Would  make  a  lake  between  them  !     Llaniston 
Nephew-in-law  to  me  !     He  can't  press  hardly 
Upon  his  uncle.     He'll  extend  his  mortgage, 
Perhaps  forgive  it.     I  can  breathe  —  I'm  saved ! 


12  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   II. 

Lady  Top.     (  Who  has  entered  unobserved,  on  the  opposite  side,  R.  H.) 
You're  in  high  spirits. 

Sir  Josh.     Have  you  seen  her  yet  ? 
Have  you  told  her  this  good  news  !     Does  she  keep  her  senses 
At  such  an  offer  ?     Has  she  yet  dismissed 
That  rambling  artist  ?     Zounds  !     How  dare  he  venture 
To  woo  my  niece  ? 

Lady  Top.     She  has  not  dismissed  him  ; 
She  knows  not  Llaniston's  offer. 

Sir  Josh.     Quick,  then,  tell  her. 

Lady  Top.     Haste  would  mar  all.     She's  a  girl's  love  for  Thorold. 
He  showed  her  kindness.     What  accomplishments 
She  knows,  he  taught  her.     Though  she  may  be  brought 
To  banish  him,  gold  will  not  tempt  her. 

Sir  Josh.     Then, 
What  will  ? 

Lady  Top.     Her  proud  and  jealous  heart,  which,  to  say  truth, 
Has  known  so  little  love,  she  almost  doubts 
Its  presence  when  it  comes.     A  word,  a  look, 
Which  happier  beings  would  not  mark,  in  her 
Wake  quick  distrust.     She's  stung  by  Thorold's  absence. 
That  he  too  treats  her  as  the  poor  dependant 
She  half  suspects  already. 

Sir  Josh.     Will  you  urge  her 
To  his  rejection  ? 

Lady  Top.     Yes  ;  for  love's  a  dream 
One  touch  dispels,  while  wealth  and  good  position 
Last  for  a  life  ;  also,  because  you're  ruined, 
Save  we've  a  hold  on  Llaniston. 

Sir  Josh.     (Advancing  to  her.)     Thanks. 

Lady  Top.     (  Withdrawing.)     No  transports  ; 
They  try  my  nerves.     Both  sides  being  duly  weighed, 
I'd  rather  live  in  ease  and  bear  your  presence, 
Than  starve  with  you  in  jail. 

Sir  Josh.     (Angrily.)     How  ? 

Lady  Top.     Silence ! 
Or  I'll  not  aid  you.     (Motions  him  off.) 

Sir  Josh.     (Deprecatingly.)     Nay,  we  part  good  friends. 

Lady  Top.     Best  friends,  sir,  when  we  part.     A  pleasant  morning. 
(She  courtesies,  Sir  Joshua  bows  and  goes  out,  L.  h.) 
Gold  is  not  every  thing.     It's  pleasant  too 
To  respect  the  man  one  marries.     Once  indeed 
I  was  love's  dupe,  like  Anne,  and  half  betrothed 
To  a  poor  advocate.     She'll  have  a  lot 
Brighter  than  mine  —  rank,  wealth,  and  —  no  Sir  Joshua  !  (Exit,  L.  H.) 

Enter  Anne,  attired  in  a  fashionable  morning  dress,  followed  by 
Lloyd,  r.  h. 

Anne.     What  means  this  change  ?     I  know  it's  outside  fair, 
But  yet  'tis  false.     I  feel  it !     This  fair  garment, 


A.CT  n.]  ANNE   BLAKE.  13 

Worn  at  my  uncle's  cost,  hangs  on  my  limbs 
Heavier  than  chains.     I'll  cast  it  off 

Lloyd.     Child,  child, 
Be  not  so  mad  !     Look  in  the  glass  and  see 
How  it  becomes  you,  beauty  ! 

Anne.     {Apart.)     Where  is  he 
Should  guide  me  here  r     Why  this  protracted  absence  — 
The  cause  still  hid  in  mystery  ?     Thorold,  Thorold  ! 
Have  you,  too,  learned  to  stint  the  dues  of  love 
When  a  dependant  claims  them  ? 

Enter  Lady  Toppixgton,  l.  h. 

Lady  Top.     Go,  Lloyd.     (Lloyd  goes  out,  l.  h.  ;   Lady  Topping- 
ton  si?iking  indolently  into  a  chair,  while  Anne  paces  the  room 
excitedly.) 
You're  disturbed  ? 

Anne.    {Stopping  short.)    Madam,  explain  this  riddle.     Why  am  I 
Invited  to  your  presence  ?     Whence  these  gifts 
Lavished  unasked  ? 

Lady  Top.     If  they  displease  you,  choose 
Some  other  pattern.     You've  decidedly 
A  graceful  figure. 

Anne.     {Impatiently.)     Madam ! 

Lady  Top.     Stay  —  sit  down  — 
You  know  I'm  nervous.     That's  a  charming  foot ! 

Anne.     Nay,  then  I'll  go.     {She  half  rises,  but  is  restrained  by  a 
gesture  from   Lady   Toppington.)     Would    you    indeed    be 
bounteous, 
Send  back  these  toys,  {her  bracelets,)  and  give  the  poor  their  price. 
Lloyd  has  a  nephew,  a  brave  fisher  lad, 
Who  wants  a  boat. 

Lady  Top.     { With   musing  admiration.)     So  generous  !     I've  oft 
thought 
We  were  mistaken  in  you.     Not  an  hour  since 
I  said,  She  has  a  heart  —  a  heart,  Sir  Joshua,  — 
Whose  love  ice  might  have  toon. 

Anne.     Perhaps  you  might. 

Lady  Top.     Your  uncle  and  myself,  I  own,  disliked  you. 
Yet  there  are  times  when  every  woman's  breast 
Yearns  to  its  neighbor.     Yes,  dear  Anne,  I  saw 
What  you  had  suffered. 

Anne.     How  ? 

Lady  Top.     From  Thorold's  absence.     Have  I  struck  too  roughly 
A  string  that  jars  ?     Don't  speak 

Anne.     For  once  —  once  only. 
I  love  him,  and  could  scarce  debate  his  truth 
With  my  own  heart.     How  should  I  then  with  you  ? 

Lady  Top.    His  truth !    You  run  to  extremes.     He's  pledged  to 
wed  you, 
And  I  don't  doubt  his  honor. 
2 


14  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   U. 

Anne.     Do  you  mean 
That  only  honor  binds  him  ? 

Lady  Top.     There,  you  pain  me  ! 

Anne.     That  he  repents  his  choice  ? 

Lady  Top.     Alas  !  some  men 
Are  so  impulsive.     One  brief  moonlike  fancy 
Abstracts  high  tides  of  passion,  and  sheds  light 
On  its  full  sea.     But  soon  breaks  prosy  day ; 
Romance,  their  moon,  dies  out,  and  their  hearts'  ocean  — 
Last  night  too  deep  to  sound  —  creeps  back  and  leaves 
Sand,  weeds,  and  froth  behind. 

Anne.     (  To  herself. )     And  wrecks,  wrecks  ! 

Lady    Top.     Love  should  be   blind,   no   doubt ;    but   friendship, 
watchful. 
In  proof  of  mine  take  this.     Some  weeks  ago 
I  found  here  the  dropped  fragment  of  a  letter, 
Without  direction.     Deeming  it  my  own, 
I  read  by  chance  its  opening  lines.     They  bore 
Such  words  of  passionate  tenderness  as  women 
Breathe  but  to  those  they  love  ! 

Anne.     Well ! 

Lady  Top.     Thorold  entered, 
And  claimed  it  eagerly. 

Anne.     Well ! 

Lady  Top.     It  proves  nothing. 

Anne.     That  he'd  a  friend  who  prized  him  ;  nothing  more. 
(Aside.)     And  yet  'tis  strange. 

Lady  Top.     Nay,  we'll  not  doubt  then 
That  Thorold  means  you  fairly. 

Anne.     Fairly !     Ay, 
He'll  keep  his  bond,  you  think,  but  curse  the  whim 
That  signed  it ;  —  has  no  coin  to  pay  that  store 
Of  sumless  love  he  vowed  ;  but  O,  he's  honorable, 
And  ready  with  the  forfeit !     I  could  blush 
At  my  own  jest.     Such  love  suits,  —  nay,  such  law  suits  !  — 
The  bachelor  a  bankrupt,  and  the  maid 
His  creditor,  —  conscience  the  offioer  she  fees 

To   arrest  her   victim,   and  her  heart  his  jail !     ( With   constrained 
laughter.) 

Lady  Top.     I'd  give  the  world  to  have  your  spirits.  —  Ah, 
Thorold's  returned  :  you've  seen  him  ? 

Anne.    No. 

Lady  Top.     He's  written  ? 

Anne.     Once. 

Lady  Top.     When,  did  you  say  ? 

Anne.     Last  week. 

Lady  Top.     He  named 
The  day  for  his  return  ? 

Anne.     No. 

Lady  Top.     Or  explained 
Why  he  delayed  ? 


A.CT   II.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  15 

Aine.     {Curtly.)     He  bade  me  not  inquire. 

Lady  Top.     He  bade  you  not  inquire  ! 

Anne.     I  wronged  his  trust 
To  say  so  much. 

Lady  Top.     Confiding  girl !     You  were  to  wed  in  May. 
Is  that  so  still  ? 

Anne.     No,  not  in  May. 

Lady  Top.     In  June  ? 

Anne.     I  know  not  yet. 

Lady  Top.     He  leaves  you  ignorant 
On  points  like  these  !     Her  jealous  soul  has  caught 
The  spark.     There'll  soon  be  flame.  —  (Aloud.)     I'm  silent ;  but 
When  next  he  treats  you  as  your  aunt's  dependant, 
Tell  him  she  bids  him  rank  you  as  her  friend. 

Enter  Jillot,  l.  h. 

Jil.    The  honorable  Mr.  Llaniston,  of  Llaniston, 
Through  me  entreats  an  audience  of  my  lady.     (  Goes  out.) 

Lady  Top.     (Aside.)     I've  paved  his  way  :    himself  must  do  the 
rest. 
(She  looks  earnestly  at  Anne,  who  sits  absorbed,  then  goes  out,  R.  H.) 

Anne.     (After  a  pause.)      When  next  he  treats  you  as  your  aunt' 
d  pendant ! 
Those  were  her  careless  words.     Is  it  so  ?     Of  late 
He  has  been  often  absent,  and  he  checks 
My  questions  of  the  cause.     He'll  sometimes  chide  them 
As  I  were  but  his  pupil.     I  must  learn 
Restraint  and  patience,  and  he'll  give  me  kindness  — 
Allot  me  half  his  thoughts  —  then  comes  a  bar. 
Here  your  love's  free  to  walk  :  that  chamber's  private. 
A  duteous  wife's  content,  no  doubt !     For  me, 
I'm  not  that  wife  !     (Rising.)     No.     Were  his  heart  world-wide, 
I'd  be  its  sun  or  nothing — Jill  my  world, 
Or  burst  from  it  to  ashes  !     What  wild  wrong 
Is  this  to  Thorold  ?  he  who  taught  me  first 
Man's  nobleness,  so  good,  so  just !  —  ay,  there, 
So  just !     Does  justice  bind  him  to  those  vows 
A  moment's  pity  breathed,  and  his  heart  shrinks  from  ? 

Thor.     (Without,  L.  h.)     Anne  !   Anne  !     (He  enters.)     At  last ! 

Anne.     Thorold  !     (She  rushes  towards  him,  then  suddenly  checks  her- 
self.)    So  you're  returned  ? 

Thor.     What  !  for  no  wanner  welcome  ?     (Kissing  her.) 

Anne.     (Turning  away.)     Nay,  you  talk 
As  you'd  been  years  away  —  not  three  short  weeks. 

Thor.     Did  they  seem  short  ? 

Anne.     To  you. 

Thor.     Why,  Anne  ? 

Anne.     (Carelessly.)     Because 
You're  often  absent.     What  one  often  does 
'Tis  plain  one  likes ;  and  what  one  likes  seems  short. 


16  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   11. 

Thor.     Excellent  logic.     Then  because  you've  borne 
My  absence  often,  it  seemed  short  to  you. 

Anne.     'Twas  forced  on  me. 

Thor.     'Twas  forced  on  me. 

Anne.     Explain  it. 

Thor.     My  absence  r    Thrice  you've  asked  me  that  before. 
Thrice  I  replied,  I  cannot. 

Anne.     Then  my  right  — 
The  right  of  your  betrothed  to  know  your  thoughts  — 
Must  crouch  to  your  high  will. 

Thor.     No,  Anne  ;  your  love 
Must  trust  my  will.     I  grant  'twixt  maid  and  lover 
Should  be  no  secrets  save  what  reason  claims 
And  conscience  warrants.     If  by  these  compelled 
To  veil  his  thoughts 

Anne.     Ay  —  then  f 

Thor.     Then  'tis  her  part 
To  credit  the  compulsion.     She  will  think 
Who  led  her  steps  in  daylight,  smoothed  her  way 
When  rough  or  thorny,  was  her  shield  in  peril, 
In  weariness  her  staff  ;  and  when  the  night 
Sinks  on  her  path,  she'll  cling  to  him,  and  feel 
No  star  above  her  head  more  clear  and  steadfast. 

{After  a  short  pause  she  gives  him  her  hand.) 
I  knew  you'd  give  your  hand. 

Anne.     {Aside.)     He  knew  I'd  give  it ! 
He  moulds  me  just  like  wax  :  all  calm,  no  passion  ! 
If  he  loved  me,  he'd  be  angry.     (  Withdraws  her  hand.) 

Thor.     What!     Not  pardoned? 

Anne.     Pardoned  —  by  me,  an  outcast,  a  stray  waif 
On  fortune's  tide,  without  an  owner's  name, 
Or  stamped  with  one  I  scorn  ! 

Thor.     Whose  ? 

Anne.     Whose  but  his 
Who  lured  my  mother  from  her  home,  made  want, 
That  cankered  life  ;  her  lot  —  dependence  mine, 
Who  forced  on  me  the  life  he  left  to  insult  ? 
My  father's 

Thor.     {With  sudden  energy.)     Hold!     A  stigma,  though  deserved, 
When  a  child  brands  it,  makes  the  hearer  weigh 
The  censure  with  the  sin ;  but,  if  unjust  — 
No,  no  ;  you  could  not  mean  it ! 

Anne.     Say  I  did, 
What  warrant  cites  me  to  your  bar  ? 

Thor.     That  instinct 
Which  makes  the  honored  memory  of  the  dead 
A  trust  with  all  the  living.     What  has  warped 
Your  heart  so  from  its  course  ? 

Anne.     The  words  of  all  men 
Who  knew  my  father.     He  lacked  strength  to  scale 
My  mother's  height —  so  drew  her  to  abasement. 


ACT   II.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  17 

Thor.     Did  she  so  deem  r     True,  he  was  of  a  band 
Whom  fortune  frowns  on,  whom  authority 
Oft  uses  and  forgets ;  but,  still,  their  souls 
Are  the  world's  life  blood ! 

Anne.     Who  ? 

Thor.     The  men  who  think  ? 
Whose  weapon  is  the  pen,  whose  realm  the  mind. 
I  mean  not  laurelled  bards,  but  daily  workers, 
Who,  like  the  electric  force,  unseen  pervade 
The  sphere  they  quicken  ;  nameless  till  they  die, 
And  leaving  no  memorial  but  a  world 
Made  better  by  their  lives  ! 

Anne.     You  knew  my  father  ? 

Thor.     We  met  abroad  ;  'twas  in  his  later  years; 
I  heard  his  story  there.     Your  mother  held 
His  love  above  the  world,  and,  spite  of  menace, 
Gave  him  her  hand  and  heart.     His  thrifty  earnings 
Sufficed  till  fever  seized  him.     Then,  on  both 
Fell  that  sharp  want :  his  wife  mourned  for  his  sake, 
With  which  his  child  upbraids  him ! 

Anne.     {Aside.)     Plain  he  hates  me  ! 
Never  would  love  on  one  brief,  bitter  mood 
Pronounce  so  sternly  !     I've  at  least  this  grace, 
That,  heartless  as  I  am,  I  free  your  sight 
Of  what  must  needs  offend  it !     {Rushes  out  by  window  in  flat.) 

Thor.     Stay,  Anne  !     Gone  ! 
My  love  for  her  lost  father  made  me  harsh. 
I  should  have  thought  how  much  that  secrecy 
His  dying  wish  enforced,  must  try  a  nature 
Ardent  and  galled  by  wrong.     To-day  !  when  much 
I  purposed  to  reveal,  and  had  at  hand 
The  spells  to  soothe  her,  (  producing  a  miniature  and  locket  ;)  here  her 

mother's  face 
In  its  fresh  youth  ;  ay,  here  the  locks  that  flung 
New  grace  on  grace  they  hid ;  here,  too,  the  words 
Her  father  wrote,  and  which,  when  worn  by  time, 
J  then  transcribed  to  save  them. 

{Looking  at  the  endorsed  paper  envelope  from  which  he  has  taken  the 
locket.) 

Enter  Lady  Toppington  by  windoio  in  flat.     Seeing  Thorold,  she  stops 
short ;  he  takes  the  portrait. 

Angel  sweetness  ! 

Unlike  thy  child  in  feature,  yet  when  love 

Has  lit  her  mien,  I've  seen  that  very  look  !     {Pressi?ig  his  lips  to  min- 
iature.) 
I'll  bring  her  back  ; 

And  those  mild  eyes  she  ne'er  beheld  till  now 
Shall  win  me  her  forgiveness.     Anne  ! 
2  * 


18  AXXE    r.LAKE.  [ACT    II. 

(He  leaves  miniature,  locket,  and  envelope  on  table,  and  goes  out  by  win- 
dow in  flat,  Lady  Toppington  standing  aside  unperceived.) 
Lady  Top.     {Advancing.)     I  wonder 
How  angels  look  !     I  heard  that  word  ;  besides, 
There's  no  mistaking  kisses.     (Taking  miniatured)     Ah,  the  face  ! 
Not  Anne's.     Whose  then  ?     A  rival's  ?     That,  indeed, 
Were  opportune  !     Methinks  I've  seen  a  face 
Which  this  recalls.     Where  ?     Where  ?     'Tis  fancy. 
What's  here  ?     A  locket  and  it's  envelope 
Endorsed  by  Thorold  !     So,  (reads,)  Token  from  one 
More  dear  than  life.     Indeed  ! 

(Anne  reenters  hastily  by  door,  R.  H.) 

Anne.     Forgive  me,  Thorold  : 
I  was  unjust  —  you,  madam  ? 

Lady  Top.     Don't  decide  : 
You  were  unjust  too  soon.    D'ye  know  that  face  ?    (Shows  miniature.) 

Anne.     No. 

Lady  Top.     'Tis  a  fair  one,  though. 

Anne.     Most  fair. 

Lady  Top.     With  eyes  that  melt  the  heart,  with  lips  that  woo  such 
kisses 
As  Thorold  pressed  there. 

Anne.     Thorold ! 

Lady  Top.     Ay,  but  now 
Entering  by  chance  and  unobserved,  I  saw  it ; 
Nay,  caught  his  words  of  passion.     He  has  no  sister  ? 

Anne.     None. 

Lady  Top.     Whose  the  portrait  then  ? 

Anne.     Ay,  whose  ? 

Lady  Top.     Poor  girl  ! 
Too  plain  his  motive  for  reserve  and  absence. 
Do  you  now  read  the  mystery  of  that  letter 
He  dropped  by  chance?     Hers  was  the  pen  that  signed  it.     (Pointing 

to  miniature.) 
Your  rival's,  your  triumphant  rival's  ! 

Anne.     Ah, 
No  !     You're  his  enemy. 

Lady  Top.     (Handing  her  the  envelope.)     Whose  is  that  hand  ? 

Anne.     Thorold's  !     (Reads.)     Token  from  one  more  dear  —  more 
dear (She  falters.) 

Lady  Top.     More  dear  than  life. 

(Anne  drops  paper,  and  stands  motionless.) 
The  paper  wrapped  this  locket.     See, 
The  golden  hair  within's  the  same  that  waves 
Across  that  pictured  brow.     (Shoivs  both.) 

Anne.     Room  !     My  brain  swims  ! 
(Lady  Toppington  replaces  locket,  paper,  and  miniature,  and  supports 

Anne.) 
I  thank  you.     I  can  walk.     It  was  his  hand  ! 

(She  reels  towards  the  door,  and  falls.) 


ACT   HI.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  19 

ACT    III. 

Scene.  —  A  richly  furnished  Drawing  Room  in  Toppington  House. 

Anne.     {Discovered  seated  on   a  low  stool,  her  arm   supporting  her 
head.) 
He  loves  another  —  loves  another  !    Why, 
I  dwell  upon  the  sounds  as  repetition 
Could  exorcise  their  sense.     My  heart  rebels 
Against  my  eyes.     Have  I  not  seen  the  face, 
The  painted  face,  which  glowed  'neath  warmer  kisses 
Than  pressed  my  living  lips  ?     Have  I  not  heard 
Those  words  —  Token  from  one  more  dear  than  life  f 
'Tis  true,  dupe,  true  !     As  drowning  men  recall 
Old  dreams  of  shipwreck,  and  in  horror's  face 
Gasp,  —  this  is  sleep,  —  I  cling  to  hope  till  billows 
Of  proof  o'erwhelm  me  !     Yes,  he  loves  another  ! 
'Tis  best  to  meet  truth  calmly.     This  explains 
His  frequent  absence,  mystery,  reproofs  ; 
And  for  his  vows  to  me  I  stand  a  debtor 
To  jealous  pique  or  pity.     Am  I  then 
So  base  as  to  accept  them,  or  so  weak 
That  he  who  feels  not  richer  for  my  love 
Should  see  the  loss  of  his  has  left  me  beggared  ?     {Springing  to  her 

feet.) 
Pride's  a  good  robe  ;  I  famish  ;  but  I  wear 
No  rags  ! 

Enter  Lady  Toppington  and  Llaniston,  r.  h. 

Lady  Top.     My  will's  imperious  ;  so  submit 
At  once  to  be  our  guest.     {Linking  her  arm  in  Anne's.) 
Join  with  me,  love  ! 
He  can't  refuse  two  ladies. 

Llan.     {  Who  boios,  aside.)     Who's  the  second  ? 
Sure  not  Miss  Blake.     She  met  me  at  the  door, 
And  deigned  me  as  much  notice  as  the  threshold. 

Lady  Top.     Silence  consents.     You'll  stay ;  and  to  insure 
Some  life  in  these  dull  quarters,  and  reward 
Your  prompt  obedience,  hear  what  I  propose  — 
We'll  act  a  play 

Llan.     Charming ! 

Lady  Top.     If  we  can  call 
A  company  together.     Once  we  played 
The  Story  of  a  Duchess.     Here's  the  book. 
I  have  at  hand  the  dresses,  parts,  costumes. 
Amuse  each  other  till  I  bring  them. 

{Apart  to  Anne,  who  turns  away,  and  fixes  her  eyes  intently  on  a  mar- 
ble group.) 
Anne ! 

Be  kind  to  him.     He  loves  you,  and  has  made  you 
An  honoiable  tender  of  his  hand.     {She  goes  to  a  cabinet.) 


20  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT    III. 

Llan.     (Aside.)     She  turns  from  me.     Our  hostess,  gentle  lady, 
Bade  me  amuse  you. 

Anne.     She  imposed  on  you 
A  hard  employment. 

Llan.     True.     I'd  choose  another 

Anne.     Do  so. 

Llan.     I'd  woo  you. 

Anne.     Then,  sir,  you'd  succeed 
In  your  first  task  — my  amusement.     (She  retires  up  the  stage,  l.h.) 

Llan.     Well,  jest  on. 
Let  me  but  plead.     (Follows  her.) 

Enter  Thorold,  the  miniature  in  his  hand,  L.  H. 

Thor.     I've  sought  her  every  where.  — 
(Aside.)     What !  her  aunt  here  ! 
And  Llaniston  !     I  must  choose  a  fitter  time 
For  this  dear  gift  —  the  all  that  earth  retains 
Of  her  loved  mother. 

Lady  Top.     (Coming  to  front  with  robes,  a  coronet,  and  MSS.,  she 
observes  Thorold,  lags  them  down,  then  speaks  aside.) 
Thorold  here  !     There's  danger 
That  must  be  met ;  for,  spite  of  all,  I  think 
He  has  not  ceased  to  love  her.     Ah  !  what  spell 
Rivets  his  eye  !     That  portrait !     Anne  ! 

(Anne  and  Llaniston  come  forward.) 

Llan.     Unkind 
And  sudden  interruption  !     (Thorold  advances.) 

Lady  Top.     What  !     You  know  him  ? 

Llan.     (Hesitatingly.)     Yes.     He  calls  himself  an  artist. 

Lady    Top.     Nay,  is  one.  —  ( To  Thorold.)     That's    a  portrait. 
May  I  look '? 
Your  pencil's  latest,  doubtless. 

Thor.     (Reluctantly.)     Madam! 

Lady  Top.     Why, 
You  seem  reluctant  —  quite  perplexed.     Ah  !  talent's 
So  modest  !     I  insist.     (She  takes  the  portrait,  and,  turning  to  Anne, 

apart,  opens  the  case.)     The  very  likeness  ! 
Look,  a  fair  face,  love !     (Gives  her  the  portrait,  then  aside.)     Saw  you 
his  confusion  ? 

(Anne  supports  herself  by  table ;  they  affect  to  examine  portrait.^ 

Llan.     (  To  Thorold.)     Deuse  take  me  if  I  understand  your  mys- 
tery ! 

Thor.     At  least  respect  it.     Not  a  word,  be  sure, 
Of  aught  between  us  that  concerns  Sir  Joshua  ! 

Llan.     O,  he's  your  object.     Mine's  his  niece.     Remember, 
You  challenged  me  to  win  her  ! 

Thor.     Have  you  won  her  ? 

Llan.     Not  yet ;  she's  flint ;  but  I'll  strike  fire  from  her. 

Thor.     The  spark  will  scorch  you  :  she'll  remain  a  stone. 


ACT   HI.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  21 

Lady  Top.     {Returning  portrait  to  Thorold.)     A  face  that's  full 
of  interest  :  we  both  thought  so. 
(Apart  to  Anne.)     Look  how  he  turns  and  lays  it  next  his  heart ! 
Courage :  he'll  see  you  tremble. 

Anne.     I  don't  tremble.  — 
(Aloud.)     Come,  come,  the  talk  dies  out :  one's  thoughts  grow  numb. 
Who'll  stir  the  mirth  into  a  blaze?     Will  you  ? 

Llan.     Gladly  !     (Bringing  Thorold  to  Lady  Toppington.) 
Lady  Commander,  a  recruit 
For  your  company,  not  of  dragoons,  but  players. 

Lady  Top.     Ay,  true,  our  dear  theatricals !     All's  ready.     (Shoto- 
ing  separate  MSS.) 
Here's  each  one's  separate  part.     Group  round  and  listen, 
While  I  explain.  —  (Aside.)     I'll  turn  this  to  account.     (All  walk  to 

places.) 
Our  heroine's  a  young  girl  whose  mind  and  beauty 
Raise  her  from  life's  low  level  to  a  dukedom. 
The  duke  who  weds  her  is,  of  course,  the  hero. 

Llan.     I'll  be  the  duke ! 

Anne.     (Forcing  gayety.)     Beware,  sir,  your  stage-lovers 
Have  oft  sad  endings. 

Llan.     Yes  ;  sometimes  they  die. 
It's  worth  the  risk  of  dying  for  to  woo  you. 

Anne.     ( With  laughter.)     Ah,  that's  because  you're  vain,  and  don't 
believe 
I'd  suffer  you  to  die  ! 

Lady  Top.     A  sharp  retort ! 

Llan.     (Apart  to  Thorold.)     Did  you  mark  that? 
What  think  you  of  her  now  ? 

Thor.     Think  ?     That  she's  in  good  spirits. 

Llan.     Nay,  she  melts. 
Look  on,  and  see  me  win  her. 

Lady  Top.     (Resuming.)     You're  the  duke,  then, 
And  Anne  your  duchess. 

(Gives  each  of  them  a  manuscript  character.) 

Llan.     I'll  play  my  part  to  the  life.     Ah,  would  'twere  for  life ! 

Anne.     Life's  a  long  time.     Let's  see  you  play  the  lover 
For  half  an  hour  first.  —  (Aside,  glancing  at  Thorold.) 
He's  calm.     My  caprices 
Disturb  him  little. 

Llan.     Come,  begin.     But  Thorold 

Lady  Top.     O,  I  and  Mr.  Thorold  take  small  share. 
The  humble  lover,  he  who,  as  he  ought, 
Resigns  the  maid,  withdraws  his  nickering  light 
When  greatness  breaks  upon  her  path  like  day. 
I'm  but  his  sister,  who  advises  him 
To  that  just  course. 

Llan.     Begin,  then.     First,  let's  try 
A  scattered  speech  or  two  to  test  our  powers. 
Say  this  where  the  duke  enters.     (He  leads  Anne  forward.)     That's 

the  page. 
Permit  me. 


22  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   m. 

Lady  Top.     (To  Thorold.)     With  what  spirit  they  adopt 
This  project.     (Thorold  takes  the  book.) 

Htm.     Heady.     (  Reach  from  the  MS. )     Scene  —  a  rustic  cottage. 
Enter  the  duke.  —  Alone,  my  Marguerite  f 
You  turn  surprised  there. 

Anne.     Right  !     {Reads  from  MS.)     My  Lord  again 
Beneath  this  humble  roof.1     Direct  your  feet 
To  loftier  homes,  for  your  high  slate  more  meet. 

Llan.     '  Tis  inner  worth  gives  rank  to  outward  place  ; 
The  cot's  a  court,  if  filled  with  human  grace. 
The  rudest  niche  is  hallowed,  if  it  hold 
A  saint  within  ;  and  men  who  delve  for  gold 
In  the  mean  earth  rise  princes.     Let  me  be 
More  rich  than  they  —  to  stoop  and  rise  —  with  thee  ! 

Anne.      Thrice  have  you  urged  on  me  this  suit  before, 
And  thrice  have  I  refused. 

Llan.     I'll  urge  the  more  ! 
Be  rock,  and  my  strong  sea  of  love  divide, 
It  ebbs  but  to  return  a  mightier  tide  ; 
Repelled  again,  more  high  the  billows  roll, 
And  sweep  at  last,  resistless,  to  their  goal ! 
Maiden  !  I  claim  this  hand! 

[[He  kneels,  and  kisses  her  hand.     Lady  Toppington  applauds.) 

Thor.     {Interposing  between  Llaniston  and  Anne.)     Stay,  Llan- 
iston  ;  that's  not  the  stage  direction. 
He  doesn't  kneel  and  kiss  her  in  the  book.     {Shows  the  page.) 

Llan.     I  did  it  upon  instinct.     {Rises.) 

Anne.     {To  Lady  Toppington.)     Is  he  jealous? 

Lady  Top.     Jealous,  with  that  cold  eye  !     No  ;  but  he's  proud, 
Nor  brooks  another's  homage  to  his  bride. 
I'll  sound  him,  though.     Converse  with  Llaniston. 

(Anne  and  Llaniston  retire.) 
{To  Thorold.)     I  see  this  pains  you. 

Tlior.     What  ? 

Lady  Top.     Nay,  if  your  eyes 
Are  closed,  my  lips  are.     {Looking  towards  Anne  and  Llaniston.) 

Thor.     Yes,  you're  right.     I'm  pained 
For  Llaniston,  who  may  build  delusive  hopes 
On  her  gay  humor.     I've  no  fears  for  her. 

Lady  Top.     You're  so  confiding.     Birth  and  wealth  like  Llanis- 
ton's 
Are  strong  temptations. 

Thor.     Not  to  Anne. 

Anne.     { Who  laughingly  releases  her  hand  from  Llaniston,  and 
comes  with  him  to  front.)     Nay,  nay  ; 
To  your  task  ! 

Llan.     A  cruel  task  to  feign  — 
Only  to  feign  I  love  you.     You  had  driven 
The  play  duke  to  despair. 

Anne.     {Recklessly.)     He  was  repulsed 
Three  times,  you  know  !     'Tis  you  would  have  lost  patience  ! 
(  Crosses  the  stage  excitedly. ) 


ACT   HI.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  23 

Lady  Top.     That's  a  fair  challenge. 

Llan.     So  I  count  it. 

Thar.     (Apart  to  Anne.)     Anne, 
A  word.     This  frolic  mood  gives  Llaniston  warrant 
For  hopes  you  little  dream  of. 

Anne.     Are  you  sure 
That  I  don't  guess  them. 

Thor.     I  should  grieve  you  did. 
I  would  not  think  you  jest  with  him. 

Anne.     Jest  with  him  ! 
I  jested  once  ;  but  'twas  before  I  knew 
Tfis  high  condition.     He's  the  nephew,  sir, 
And  next  heir  of  an  earl.     The  man  can  give 
His  wife  a  coronet.     Jest  with  him  !     Jest !  — 
(Aside.)     He  thought  me  heartless  :  now  he'll  find  me  so. 
Come,  friends,  the  play  ! 

Thor.     (Apart.)     Have  I  heard  right ?     "What!  Anne 
Barter  her  childlike  truth  and  plighted  faith 
For  rank  —  for  gold.     'Twas  wanton  humor ;  yet 

This  morning's  freezing  welcome  her  aunt's  warning 

I'll  end  this  doubt. 

Anne.     Proceed ! 

Llan.     'Tis  Thorold's  turn 
To  play  the  lover. 

Thor.     Ay,  the  humbler  one, 
Who  yields  her  to  the  duke.     Not  till  he  knows 
Her  heart  is  with  the  duke,  though.     Here's  a  passage 
Strikes  me.     I  know  the  words.  — 

(He  lays  down  the  book,  and  advances  to  Anne,  who  stands  apart.) 
Go  :  I  release  you  !     She  can  nought  impart, 
Who,  giving  all  beside,  withholds  her  heart. 
Did  those  eyes' smile  I  should  recall  they  smiled 
On  loftier  love,  and  deem  my  own  beguiled. 
Discord  to  me  the  tones,  though  soft  and  clear, 
That  make  like  music  in  a  rival's  ear. 
I  gave  tioee  all  my  heart ;  as  on  a  throne 
Thou  there  hadst  reigned,  if  reigning  there  alone  ! 
But  she  whom  from  my  breast  capricious  will 
Or  pride  can  tempt,  that  throne  shall  never  fill ! 

Llan.     Excellent !  you  quite  make  the  part  your  own. 
(He  is  about  to  come  forward.     Lady  Toppington  restrains  him,  ex- 
hibiting robes  and  coronet.) 

Thor.     (Apart  to  Anne.)     I  felt  as  'twere  my  own.     Anne,  I  had 
acted 
Even  as  that  lover. 

Anne.     A  threat ! 

Thor.     No  ;  a  wanting. 
If  that  ambition  or  caprice  have  swayed 
Your  heart  to  Llaniston,  your  fate  were  wretched 
To  call  me  husband  ;  but  if,  from  vanity, 
With  no  intent  to  wed  him,  you  would  rouse 


24  AXNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   Hl| 

A  true  heart's  hope  and  love,  his  fate  were  sadder 
Who  called  you  —  wife. 

Anne.     (Aside.)     O,  prompt  excuse  to  snap 
The  chain  that  galls  him. 

Thor.     Hear  me 

Anne.     No  ;  I've  chosen. 
Here,  sir,  our  pathways  part ;  you're  free  forever  ! 
( Turning  to  Lady  Toppington.)     What  have  you  there  ? 

Lady  Top.     The  duchess'  robe  and  crown. 

Thor.     (Apart.)     This  change  should  be  the  work  of  years,  not 
moments. 
She  false  !  she  heartless  ! 

Enter  Sir  Joshua  with  a  sealed  letter,  L.  h. 

Sir  Josh.     It's  absurd  ; 
It's  too  absurd. 

Lady  Top.     What  now  i 

Sir  Josh.     A  messenger, 
Who  swears  that  Colonel  Thorold's  in  the  house, 
And  claims  admittance. 

Lady  Top.     Well  ! 

Sir  Josh.     He  brought  this  letter, 
Just  reached  from  India. 

Thor.     India  !     Give  it  me. 

Sir  Josh.    'Tis  not  for  you  nor  yours.    Though  you're  called  Thorold, 
I  judge  you're  no  relation  to  the  colonel. 

Thor.     No,  sir  ;  I  am  the  colonel.     Llaniston  ? 

Llan.     'Tis  true,  indeed  ;  you  speak  with  Colonel  Thorold, 
The  gallant  hero  of  our  last  campaign. 

Thor.     Give  me  your  pardon.     (  Takes  and  opens  letter, .) 

Sir  Josh.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Llan.     Ay,  sir,  —  a  man  of  wealth  and  family 
That  few  can  boast. 

Sir  Josh.     A  downright  gentleman. 
I  thought  he  lived  by  his  talents. 

Thor.     (Reading  apart.)     "  The  Indian  Mines."     *     *     * 
'Tis  news  indeed.     Friend,  give  me  joy  !     Those  mines 
In  India,  where  I'd  risks 

Llan.     Which  you  thought  desperate 

Thor.     Prosper  past  hope.     They've  hit  on  a  new  vein  ! 

Llan.     Brave  tidings  !     (Shakes  Thorold  by  the  hand.) 

Thor.     (Resuming  the  letter.)     Ah!  what's  here?     Wait  your  re- 
turn!    *     *     * 
My  return  !     Then  I'll  be  prompt.     I'll  save  her,  snatch  her 
From  this  corrupting  air.     Sir  Joshua, 
One  title  you've  allowed.     I  claim  another  — 
Your  niece's  guardian  by  her  father's  will. 
I'll  bring  full  proofs  with  reasons  that  till  now 
Obliged  concealment.     Hold  the  lady  henceforth 
At  my  disposal.     (Goes  to  door.) 


ACT   HI.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  25 

Sir  Josh.     What  ?     Her  guardian  !  Poh  ! 
Her  guardian  !  stay,  stay (Folloics  Thorold  out.) 

Lady  Top.     (  To  Llaniston.)     Learn  if  this  be  true  ; 
She's  much  moved.     Go  !     (Llaniston  goes  out.) 

Anne.     (Musing.)     So  his  fate  were  sad 
"Who  called  me  'wife  !     He  said  it !  Thorold  ! 

Lady  Top.     (Playfully  laying  her  hand  on  Anne's  shoulder.) 
'Mazed  ! 

Well,  so  you  should  be.     A  rich,  high-born  guardian 
Dropped  from  the  clouds  !     I  suppose  now  you'll  wed  him  ? 

Anne.     For  his  wealth,  when  I  dismissed  him  poor  ? 

Lady  Top.     Dismissed  him  ! 
Well,  then,  'twould  look,  I  grant,  should  you  relent, 
As  if  his  fortunes  bribed  you. 

Anne.     I'd  let  despair 
Gnaw  through  my  heart  first. 

Lady  Top.     Right  !  that's  spirit,  girl ! 
I  love  those  flashing  eyes.     Stand  so  and  humor 
A  fancy  that  I  have.     They're  but  the  robes 
Of  the  play  duchess  —  {disposing  them  round  her)  — 
Wait  the  coronet !     (Places  it  on  tlie  table  at  Anne's  right.) 
A  perfect  picture  !     You  were  born  to  rule, 
To  shine  amidst  the  brilliant !     Ah,  there's  one  — 
Heir  to  an  earldom  he  —  who  sues  to  give 
No  mock  robes  to  my  Anne,  "  who'd  bind  her  brows 
"  With  their  fit  emblem,  rank,"  — who'd  not  repent 
His  vow  to  a  dependant ! 

Anne.     Ah  ! 

Lady  Top.     Whose  pride 
Would  be  to  watch  her  triumphs. 

Anne.     (Suddenly.)     'Midst  those  triumphs 
Should  I  again  meet 

Lady  Top.     Thorold  ?     Yes  ! 

Anne.     (As  to  herself.)     He'd  feel 
I  lost  him  and  could  live  —  no  sickly  flower 
Nipped  by  his  frost ;  but  the  plumed  tree  that  shoots 
From  the  scarred  rock  and  nods  at  desolation  ! 

(She  pauses  with  sudden  calmness,  then  drops  the  robe  at  her  feet.) 
Off,  off,  mock  shows  !     I  grasp  realities.  — 
Heart  that  has  ne'er  been  loved,  whose  love  was  scorned, 
Freeze  till  that  weakness  perish,  —  freeze,  but  shine  ! 
Who  thinks,  when  glaciers  flash,  'tis  only  ice 
That  ghtters  in  the  beam  ?     (She  stands  lost  in  thought.) 

Lady  Top.     (Who  has  retired  a  few  steps,  intently  watching  her,  now 
approaches.)     Anne  ! 

Anne.     Ah  !  —  Your  hand  ! 
We  should  be  friends.  —  I'll  marry  Llaniston  ! 

END   OF  ACT   HI. 


26  ANNE    BLAKE.  [AG1 

ACT  IV. 

Scene.  —  Drawing  Room,  as  in  Act  III. 

Enter  Thorold  and  Llaniston,  r.  h. 

Thor.     Nay,  friend  !  a  truce  to  jesting.     You,  indeed, 
Propose  to  marry  her. 

Llan.     Asked  like  a  guardian  ! 
Do  you  indeed  propose  ?    To  think,  now,  Thorold, 
You  should  turn  out  her  guardian.     Yes,  we  marry, 
That  is,  with  your  consent,  if  she  decides  so. 

Thor.     Then  she  yet  doubts  ? 

Llan.     She  bids  me  wait  her  answer 
Soon  in  the  library.     (Looking  at  his  watch.")     Cupid  and  Hymen, 
'Tis  near  the  hour. 

Thor.     (  With  indignant  surprise.}     You  trifle  ! 

Llan.     Don't  object 
To  my  poor  Cupid.     He's  a  comelier  god 
Than  Miss  Blake  swears  by  —  Plutus  ! 

Thor.     How  ? 

Llan.     You  know 
Your  ward  so  little  ?     She's  a  sparkling  eye, 
But  shrewder  than  'tis  bright.     Sir,  by  her  sex 
Nature  has  spoiled  a  lawyer.     There  be  women 
"Who  shine  in  drawing  rooms  ;  some  captivate 
On  horseback  ;  some  are  irresistible 
In  kitchens ;  but  her  sphere's  a  pleader's  chambers  : 
Some  charmers  lure  by  dress  ;  some  melt  by  music  ; 
Some,  with  the  imperious  lightnings  of  their  eyes, 
Effect  a  breach  in  hearts  ;  some  awe  by  learning  ; 
She's  none  of  these  —  her  forte's  arithmetic. 
You  should  have  heard  my  wooing 
An  hour  back.     "  Anne,  behold  me  at  your  feet," 
I  cried.  —  "  You'll  give  me  hope  ? "     What  was  her  answer  ? 
Straight  to  the  point.     She  asked  my  yearly  income  — 
Net  —  after  all  deductions  ;  if  indeed 
I  were  a  peer's  next  heir  ;  would  live  in  London, 
Take  her  to  court,  mix  with  the  world,  and  see 
She  matched  its  proudest  —  for  all  which  perhaps 
She'd  give  me  a  wife's  duty.     As  for  love, 
I  must  omit  that  trifle. 

Thor.     Well ! 

Llan.     I  promised. 
Her  frankness  suits  me.     I  prefer  a  hand 
Labelled  for  sale,  to  one  that  coyly  slides 
Into  your  palm  and  tingles  for  your  purse. 

Thor.     (Energetically.')     It  shall  not  be. 

Llan.     It  shall,  if  she  consent. 


ACT   IV.]  ANNE   BLAKE.  27 

My  truth's  engaged  to  it.     Are  you  a  rival, 
That  you  would  thwart  me  ? 

Thor.    No  ;  for  me  love's  spark 
Glows  not  within  her  breast ;  but,  sir,  I  knew 
And  loved  her  father.     When  in  India 
One  high  in  rule  aspersed  my  soldier  name, 
His  honest,  fearless  pen  disproved  the  lie, 
And  won  me  back  that  amulet  true  souls 
Must  wear  or  perish  —  honor  !     We  grew  friends, 
Heart  friends,  until  he  died  —  most  poor  —  most  noble  ! 
I'd  save  his  child  from  sin 

Llan.     Sin ! 

Thor.     That  black  sin 
Which  vows  what  the  heart  shrinks  from.     You  have  said 
She  loves  you  not. 

Llan.     You're  warm,  I  find,  sir.     Time 
Cuts  short  this  conference,     (He  bows  coldly  and  goes  out,  L.  H.) 

Thor.     Nay,  I  follow  then. 
Anne,  Anne,  whom  I  so  loved,  —  my  once  betrothed  ! 
I  bear  thy  loss  ;  but  could  I  bear  thy  shame  ? 

(He  follows  Llaniston  out,  L.  h.) 

Enter  Sir  Joshua,  Lady  Toppington,  and  Anne,  r.  h. 

Sir  Josh.     But  hear  me,  my  dear  niece. 

Anne.     Leave  me,  Sir  Joshua  ! 
You  may  trust  me,  madam  ! 

Lady  Top.     You'll  give  full  consent 
To  Llaniston's  suit. 

Anne.     I've  said  it. 

Sir  Josh.     Quick,  consent,  dear  Anne, 
Say,  quick  !    My  maxim  is,  Secure  the  bird 
While  the  lime's  fresh.     'Twas  so  I  won  your  aunt. 
Ha,  ha  !     You'll  heed  my  maxim  ? 

Anne.     If  you'll  leave  me 
To  ponder  it. 

Sir  Josh.     And,  further,  niece,  don't  tell  him 
You  take  him  for  his  money.     Men  don't  like  it. 
Truth  isn't  told  at  all  times,  and  in  courtship 
One  never  tells  it. 

Anne.     Yet  that  very  truth 
I'll  tell  unless  you  leave  me. 

Lady  Top.     (Apart  to  Sir  Joshua.)     You'll  spoil  all. 

Sir  Josh.    I'm  not  at  ease.     She'll  change  her  mind,  and  Llaniston 
Call  in  his  mortgage.  —  One  more  word,  and  then 
I'll  go  indeed.     You're  sure  you'll  not  relent, 
And  marry  Thorold  ?     Thorold,  who  despised 
The  poor  dependant ! 

Anne.     Listen  !     By  each  good 
Men  value,  —  by  what  gold  or  a  lord's  smile 
Is  to  your  heart,  or  pride  to  my  own  crushed  one, 


28  ANNE   BLAKE.  [ACT   IT. 

Or  prayers  to  gasping  lips,  —  that  poor  dependant 
Vows  never  to  wed  Thorold  !     Now  withdraw. 

Lady  Top.     You  may,  and  satisfied.     That  vow  would  bind  her 
Though  her  life  paid  it.     Come  ! 

Sir  Josh.     Farewell,  dear  niece  ! 
You'll  be  discreet,  now  ? 

Lady  Top.     {Forcing  him  off,  R.  H.)     Come  ! 

Sir  Josh.     A  quick  consent ! 
You'll  give  a  quick  consent,  — you'll  heed  my  maxim, 
While  the  lime's  fresh  —  ha,  ha  ! 

(Goes  out  in  glee  with  Lady  Toppington,  r.  h.) 

Anne.     (Looking  after  them.)     Were  my  mind  less  fixed, 
'Twould  swerve  revolted  from  the  path  you  travel. 
No  matter  now.     One  impulse  like  the  glare 
Of  a  volcano  inwards  lights  my  soul, 
And  shows  it  its  own  nature  —  fire  and  stone. 
My  tears,  that  burned  like  lava  when  they  fell, 
Like  that  congeal  to  rock.     One  hope,  one  aim, 
One  pulse  of  life,  —  that  /,  the  poor,  abased, 
Deserted  outcast,  by  my  will  and  brain 
Rise  to  far  heights  of  power,  of  woman's  power, 
To  dazzle  and  enslave  !     Then  he  may  feel 
I  had  the  strength  to  rule  ;  I  might  have  had 
The  strength  to  love  and  bless  !  —  Now  to  my  fate. 
(As  she  advances  to  door,  Thorold  reenters,  l.  h.,  and  confronts  her.) 

Thor.     Stay,  Anne  !     Where  would  you  go  ? 

Anne.     To  the  library. 

Thor.     Upon  what  errand  ? 

Anne.     (  With  haughty  coldness.)     Sir  ! 

Thor.     You  doubt  my  right  to  question  ?  —  I'm  your  guardian. 

Anne.     But  not  my  jailer ;  'tis  my  will  to  pass  ; 
You  block  my  way. 

Thor.     And  is  it  J  alone 
That  block  your  way  ?     Are  there  no  crowding  shapes 
Such  as  the  soul  sees  —  youth's  sweet  instincts  gazing 
With  sorrow-stricken  faces,  memory,  conscience  — 
To  warn  you  from  the  gulf  ? 

Anne.     I've  not  the  brain 
To  solve  a  riddle,  nor  the  time. 

Thor.     Then  wait, 
And  hear  me  solve  it.     Your  way  leads  to  Llaniston, 
And  you'll  accept  his  suit. 

Anne.     (After  a  pause.)     You're  right.     Such  is 
My  way  and  purpose.     Shall  I  pass  ? 

Thor.     Not  yet. 

Anne.     I  must,  save  force  should  bar  me  :  quit  my  path. 

Thor.     You  fear  to  hear  me  speak,  then  ? 

Anne.     Fear  !     No,  speak  ! 

(She  sits  and  coldly  motions  him  to  proceed :  a  pause.) 
What's  your  theme  ? 

Thor.     Guilt !     You  would  marry,  yet  deny  the  love 
Makes  wedlock  sacred. 


ACT   IV.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  29 

Anne.     Do  you  boast  Heaven's  right 
To  judge  the  heart  ? 

Thor.    No.  —  Have  I  misjudged  yours  ? 
Say  that,  and  go  ! 

Anne.     I'll  pay  the  forfeiture 
Of  my  own  deed. 

Thor.     Do  you  know  that  forfeit  ? 

Anne.     Count  it, 
And  then  see  if  I  shrink. 

Thor.     Count  what  she  forfeits 
Who  weds  and  gives  no  heart.     I'll  try,  though  word*, 
Which  figure  outward  loss,  appraise  not  ruin 
In  things  immortal.  —  First,  she  forfeits  truth  ; 
She  forfeits  womanhood  in  love,  its  essence ; 
Cuts  off  earth's  blessed  commerce  with  the  skies  ; 
Profanes  all  sacred  forms  ;  makes  home  a  sound, 
The  temple  an  exchange,  the  shrine  a  counter, 
The  grave  a  common  sod,  where  never  kneels 
Love  that  points  upward  ! 

Anne.     (Aside.)     And  this  thing  he  made  me  !  — 
The  peril's  on  my  head.     (Half  rising.) 

Thor.     And  would  you  brave 
What  freezes  me  to  tell  ?     Hear  my  last  plea, 
Then  as  you  will.     Alas  !  no  parent's  voice 
May  warn  —  implore !     I'd  speak  of  yours,  I'd  tell  you 
Why  you  ne'er  knew  a  father. 

Anne.     Speak. 

Thor.     You  know  already 
How  toil  brought  sickness,  sickness  poverty  ; 
How  —  bowed  in  mind  and  frame  —  your  father  sat 
By  his  cold  hearth,  yet  from  one  faithful  breast 
Drew  warmth  and  hope.     Before  him  knelt  his  wife, 
Your  mother  ! 

Anne.     Well ! 

Thor.     He  loved  her,  as  they  only 
Can  love  who  suffer,  loved  her  —  soul  and  form. 
Her  form  was  as  the  crystal  to  the  light, 
Her  soul  —  the  light  that  filled  it.  —  Yet  they  parted  ! 
Those  twin  lives  broke,  and  blent  on  earth  no  more  ! 

Anne.     What  parted  them  ? 

Thor.     Well  asked  !  —  What  could  ?    Not  want,  — 
They  had  quaffed  it  to  the  dregs,  and  in  its  cup 
Pledged  love  anew  ;  not  exile,  —  where  he  stood 
Was  home  to  her  ;  not  chains,  —  her  faithful  tears 
Had  rusted  them  to  free  him  ;  not  the  seas,  — 
They  had  foundered  on  one  plank  ;  not  Iceland  snows,  — 
You  had  tracked  her  footfall  there  !     All  these,  men  brave 
For  Gold  ;  why,  Love  had  mocked  them  ! 

Anne.     Tell  me,  then, 
What  severed  them  ? 

Thor.     They  had  a  child — an  infant- 
3  * 


31  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT    1 

Famine  was  at  their  threshold.     For  their  child 

Those  true  hearts  quailed.     They  sought  your  uncle's  aid. 

He  offered  shelter  to  the  wife  and  babe.  — 

Denied  it  to  the  husband  ! 

Anne.     And  my  father  ? 

Thor.     Strained 
Your  mother  to  his  breast,  till  soon  their  eyes 
Lit  on  the  form  that  clung  for  life  to  hers  ; 
They  saw  its  wan,  pinched  cheek,  the  blight  of  want 
Creep  on  their  blossom.      They  could  save  it  !  —  he 
With  one  long  Xiss,  till  their  souls  met  again, 
Embraced  his  w.'e,  unwound  his  beggared  arms, 
And  said —  Wife,  go  !  —  And  for  her  child  she  went ! 

Anne.     (Aside.)     I  must  quit  or  yield.     (She  rises.) 

Thor.     (Detaining  her.)     You  were  that  child  —  for  you 
They  wrenched  the  bent  of  life,  —  slid  from  the  raft 
That  buoyed  their  fainting  limbs,  that  you  might  ride 
The  sorrows  where  they  sunk  ! 

Anne.     Cease ! 

Thor.     Will  you  pay 
That  mighty  debt  by  sin  ?  —  a  sin  that  mocks 
The  love  they  worshipped.     See,  your  mother  speaks  — 
She  pleads  —  look  in  her  face. 

(Snatches  the  miniature  from  his  breast,  and  places  it  in  her  hand.) 

Anne.     Her  face  !  that  portrait 
My  mother's  face  ? 

Thor.     Even  so. 

Anne.     My  mother,  mother  ! 

(Sinks  on  her  knee,  reverently  pressing  her  lips  to  portrait.) 
(Thorold  gazes  on  Anne  with  deep  emotion,  and  exits,  l.  h.) 

END    OF   ACT   TV. 


ACT   V. 

Scene.  —  Library  in  Toppington  House,  as  in  Act  II. 

Enter  Sir  Joshua  and  Lady  Topplngton,  r.  h. 

Sir  Josh.     Refused  him  !     Anne  refused  him  ! 

Lady  Top.     Calmly,  firmly  ! 
I've  seen  the  letter. 

Sir  Josh.     Refuse  Llaniston  ! 
Twelve  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  a  near  earldom, 
Flung  back  like  a  gown  in  tatters  !     Why,  it's  impious  ; 
It's  crossing  Providence  ;  —  and  he'll  claim  his  mortgage. 


A.CT   V.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  31 

Ungrateful  minx,  to  ruin  me,  her  friend 
And  benefactor  ! 

Lady  Top.     Hush  !     She'll  marry  him. 

Sir  Josh.     She'll  not  —  to  spite  me. 

Lady  Top.     But  she  will  —  to  escape  you, 
And  she's  no  choice.  —  Mark  !     I've  persuaded  Llaniston, 
Not  her  own  will  refused  him,  but  her  guardian's. 
He'll  wait  a  second  answer.     Thorold  leaves 
At  once  for  India.     It  seems  some  mines  there 
Have  brought  him  sudden  wealth. 

Sir  Josh.     {Impatiently.)     There's  luck !     'Twas  said 
Those  mines  would  fail :  shares  went  for  nothing.  —  Now 
Their  owners  turn  out  princes,  and  count  thousands 
For  their  risked  hundreds.     There's   luck  !     {Paces   the  room,   then 

composes  himself.') 
He's  no  thoughts,  though, 
To  waste  on  Anne. 

Lady  Top.     And  she  would  rather  starve 
Than  be  his  debtor.     In  great  poverty 
Her  father  died.     Llaniston  had  that  from  Thorold  : 
Her  only  choice,  then,  lies  between  her  suitor 
And  you,  her  benefactor.     O,  she'll  marry  ! 

Sir  Josh.     Ay,  or  repent  it.     Hush  ! 
She's  here. 

Enter  Anne,  simply  attired,  R.  h. 

Anne.     I  came, 
Madam,  to  tell  you,  what  'tis  fit  you  learn. 
I've  pondered  your  friend's  suit,  and  have  refused  it. 

Sir  Josh.     (Ironically.)     Can  you  deign  your  reason? 

Anne.     Yes,  he's  generous, 
And  merits  love.     I  felt  none. 

Sir  Josh.     O  !     We're  meek, 
We're  nice,  it  seems.     We  can  so  well  afford 
The  luxury  of  a  conscience.  —  We  can't  marry. 
It  wounds  our  principles  !     Let  principle 
Feed,  clothe,  and  house  you. 

Lady  Top.     Stay,  unmanly  tyrant ; 
She'll  hate  you. 

Sir  Josh.     Let  her.  —  She'll  the  sooner  seek 
A  husband's  shelter. 

Lady  Top.     {Kindly  to  Anne.)     Tis  your  last  resource. 
He'll  grind  you  in  the  dust.  — Your  pride  forbids 
All  thought  of  Thorold  ;  nay,  your  vow. 

Anne.     (Emphatically.)     The  sin 
Of  my  rash,  selfish  heart,  which  his  recoils  from, 
Forbids  it  too  ;  nay,  could  he  pardon,  still 
The  poor  dependant,  who  forsook  him  humble, 
Will  never  share  his  greatness. 

Sir  Josh.     (Aside,  exultingly.)     Then  all's  safe. 
She's  in  my  power  !     (He  moves  to  the  door,  R.  H.) 


32  ANNE    BLAKE.  [ACT   V. 

Lady  Top.    Yield,  Anne  ! 

Anne.     Go,  madam  ! 

(Lady  Toppington/o#ow>s  Sir  Joshua  out,  r.  h.) 

Anne.    Yield ! 
Plunge  back  into  that  guilt  whence  Thorold  snatched  me  ! 
Never.     He  loved  me  !     'Twas  my  mother's  face 
Stung  me  to  jealous  madness.     (  Gazing  on  the  portrait  which  she  wears.) 
He  may,  he  must 

Despise  me  now  —  the  tears  of  my  remorse 
He  may  not  see  nor  trust.     Within  his  hand 
Mine  may  not  anchor,  when  storms  lash  me  on ; 
And  when  I  die,  upon  my  upraised  eyes 
No  love  may  float  from  his  ;  but  once  he  loved  me, 
And  I  will  keep  my  soul  inviolate  to  his  love's  shadow. 

Lloyd.     {Who  enters  cautiously,  l.  h.)     Darling  pet,  dear  child, 
The  colonel's  here,  and  asks  an  interview 
Ere  he  sets  sail. 

Anne.     Sets  sail ! 

Lloyd.     For  India. 
Why,  sure,  you've  heard  it. 

Anne.     No  ;  or  heard  it  but 
As  in  a  dream.     Sets  sail  for  India  ! 

Lloyd.    It's  strange  !  all's  strange  —  that  he  should  prove  a  hero, 
A  great  man  the  world  talks  of,  one  whose  name's 
In  the  newspapers  !     Why,  all  the  tenants  round 
Are  bent  to  honor  him,  and  in  procession 
To  see  him  to  his  ship. 

Anne.    To  his  ship  !     *     *     *     Heaven  bless  them  ! 
They  know  his  worth. 

Lloyd.     (Observi?ig  her  emotion.)     Nay,  bird,  he's  little  worth 
Who'd  wrong  or  slight  thee  ! 

Anne.     Lloyd ! 

Lloyd.     Don't  thrust  me  off. 
I  meant  no  ill.     I'll  call  him  kind,  to  please  you. 
He  may  forsake  you  ;  all  may  ;  but  not  Lloyd  ! 

Anne.     {Casting  her  arms  round  her  neck.)    Dear  Lloyd!     *     •     • 
he  waits. 

(Lloyd  snatches  her  hand,  kisses  it,  and  goes  out,  L.  H.) 
Is  it  real  ?     To  meet  once  more, 
Then  part,  most  like  forever.     To  think,  to-morrow 
Even  the  white  speck  of  his  sail  will  vanish, 
And  a  whole  life  slide  from  me  in  an  hour. 
Is  it  real  ?  —  I  must  be  calm.    He  shall  not  catch 
One  cry  of  this  wild  grief.     From  me  who  left 
His  lot  when  it  seemed  lowly,  love  itself 
Would  look  like  interest ;  he  might  think  me  sordid  !  — 
I  could  not  bear  that  pang. 

Enter  Thorold,  followed  by  a  Servant  with  casket  and  packet,  L.  H. 
Thor.     So,  friend  !  the  casket.     (  Takes  it  and  places  it  on  table.) 


ACT  V.]  ANNE   BLAKE.  33 

Serv.    A  packet,  just  delivered,  sir  ! 

{Hands  it  to  Thoeold,  and  goes  out,  X,.  H.) 

Thor.     {Opening  it,  and  taking  out  a  deed.)     Ah,  from  Llaniston  ! 
{Looking  at  Anne,  who  affects  to  occupy  herself  with  boolis  and  prints.) 
How  all  unmoved  she  looks  !     She  never  loved  me. 
{Advances  to  her  with  casket.)     Anne,  'tis  our  farewell  meeting  ! 

Anne.     So  I've  heard 
You're  called  hence  suddenly.     {Points  to  a  chair.) 

Thor.     And  ere  I  leave 
Would  end  a  guardian's  duties.     It  may  chance 
I  shall  return  no  more. 

Anne.     {Aside.)     No  more !     *     *     *     You've  friends  — 

*  *     *     I  mean  you've  friends  in  England,  who  would  grieve  — 

*  *     *     That  is  —  regret  to  think  so. 

Thor.     {Turning  aside  with  emotion.)     What  we  two 
Seemed  once  to  one  another  !  and  we  part 
Forever  with  regret !     {After  a  pause,  with  forced  calmness,) 
Regret's  the  word ; 

It  suits  our  life.  —  Hopes  sink,  the  dark  abyss 
Parts,  closes,  —  and  all's  sunshine ! 

Anne.     Ay,  above !     {Aside.) 

Thor.     {Opening  casket.)     We  trifle  and  waste  time.     First  take 
this  token, 
Your  mother's  hair.     The  words  your  father  wrote, 
And  I  —  when  time  effaced  them  —  wrote  anew.  — 
Here  are  her  letters  ;  some  were  in  their  courtship, 
Some  traced  the  year  she  died.     {Giving  them.)     You  weep,  —  ah, 

wear 
In  your  heart's  depths  their  memory,  though  mine 
Has  no  more  place  there  ! 

Anne.     Yours  no  place  !  —  you  think  — 
No  matter  — 

Thor.     Anne ! 

Anne.     {As  with  sudden  recollection.)     Ah,  I  can  speak  !  —  Mark, 
Thorold, 
I've  voved  and  here  repeat  my  pledge 

Thor.     Hold!    Hold! 

Anne.     Never  to  link  my  abject  lot  with  yours  ! 
'Tis  sworn,  the  choked  tide's  free.  —  I  love  you  —  love  you  ! 
You  can't  misjudge  me  now  ! 

Thor.     No. 

Anne.     Hear  me  still, 
You'll  rest  to-morrow.     You  have  seen  me  rash, 
Wilful,  unjust ;  —  worse  —  ay,  you  must  have  deemed  so  — 
Basely  ambitious,  bartering  for  gold 
And  rank  your  priceless  love  !     O  Thorold,  'twas  not 
A  hireling  heart's  indifference  ;  'twas  a  proud, 
Stung  heart's  delirium  !  . 

Thor.     Ay,  say  on  ! 

Anne.     From  childhood, 
Friendless,  despised,  a  common  mark  for  taunts 


34  ANNE   BLAKE. 


[aci  y.  I 


That  poisoned  where  they  pierced,  you  met  me,  saved  me  ; 
My  mind  grew  happier,  worthier,  nearer  yours, 
Till  —  O,  deep  shame  !  —  doubt  sprung  there  —  I  was  tempted 
By  wiles  that  looked  like  truth  to  think  you  faithless  ; 
Mock  proofs  swarmed  round  me,  ringing  in  my  ear 
This  knell  —  He  too  abandons  !     There  my  soul 
Lost  light,  chart,  compass  ;  I  but  knew  one  star  ; 
It  vanished  —  and  I  struck  !     (  Casts  herself  before  him.) 
Thor.     (Attempting  to  raise  her.)     Best  loved  !  —  rise,  rise  ! 

(Enter  Sir  Joshua,  Lady  Toppington,  and  Llaniston,  r.  h.) 

Sir  Josh.     (To  Anne.)     How!    don't   you   hear  the  colonel?  — 
Rise,  release  him  !     (She  rises.) 

(Apart  to  her.)    He'll  none  of  you.     A  marriage  contract  waits 
Your  signature. 

Anne.     It  must  wait. 

Sir  Josh.     Do  my  will, 
Or  quit  my  doors.     (Losing  all  self-control.) 

Llan.     Silence  !  —  I  sought  a  wife, 
And  not  a  slave. 

Lady  Top.     Remember,  Anne,  your  vow  !  — 
That  poor  dependant  ne'er  will  wed  with  Thorold. 

Thor.     Was  that  your  vow  ? 

Anne.     It  was. 

Sir  Josh.     Ay,  word  for  word. 

Thor.     Then  I  annul  it.     No  dependant  stands  there  ! 
Those  Indian  mines  !     (Laying  his  hand  on  casket.) 

Sir  Josh.     Are  nought  to  her.     Her  father 
Died  poor. 

Thor.     Most  poor.     For  in  those  mines  he  risked  his  all  — 
Half  a  life's  earnings  to  redeem  his  child. 
That  darling  hope  seemed  blighted  ;  the  scant  ore 
Scarce  paid  the  miners'  toil,  and  with  vain  throes 
For  the  far  heart  he  might  not  clasp  to  his, 
Her  father  died. 

Sir  Josh.     Ay ! 

Thor.     He  died  —  not  his  act  ! 
Still  delved  the  miners  —  delved  till  earth  revealed 
A  vein  —  a  realm  of  wealth  ! 

Sir  Josh.     Hers  ! 

Thor.     In  the  outcast 
Behold  the  heiress  ;  in  the  maid  your  fraud 

Divorced  from  love,  the (  Turns  to  Anne.)    May  I  speak  that 

word  ? 
You're  no  dependant  now  !  — 

Anne.     Yes,  speak.     (He  opens  his  arms,  into  which  she  rushes.) 

Thor.     The  wife, 
The  wife  J 

Sir  Josh.     'Tis  false  —  you  fool  me  ! 

Thor.     Her  father's  dying  breath 


ACT  V.]  ANNE    BLAKE.  35 

Bound  me  to  silence  on  her  fate  while  doubtful, 
That  hoping  nothing,  failure  might  not  wound  her. 
Hence  I  concealed  my  guardianship  and  station  ; 
For  her  dear  self  I  wooed  her  —  for  myself 
She  chose  me  ! 

Llan.    Humph  !  that's  soothing,  since  I've  lost  her. 

Thar.     (Gayly.)     Nay,   she's  more   yours   than  ever;    you  most 
prized  her 
When  she  was  hard  to  win  ;  you'll  doubly  prize  her 
Now  that's  impossible. 

(Anne  smilingly  gives  Llaniston  her  hand.) 

Enter  Jillott  and  Lloyd  hastily,  c.  D. 

Jil.     Sir  Joshua,  the  tenants  and  a  mob 
Of  the  —  hem  !  —  inferior  classes  through  the  gates 
Pour  in  by  hundreds. 

Lloyd.     With  a  band  and  banners, 
To  pay  respect  to  the  colonel. 

Sir  Josh.     Drive  them  hence  ! 
Send  for  a  constable.     Respect  to  him  ! 

Thor.     Stir  not  an  inch.     They're  welcome. 

Sir  Josh.     Sir  !  your  right  ? 

Thor.     (Producing  deed.)     This  forfeit  mortgage  of  your  lands, 
which  Llaniston 
Assigns  to  me,  and  I  to  Anne  for  dowry. 
You  would  have  driven  her  from  your  roof, 
And  she 

Anne.     Will  grant  him  one  for  shelter.     So,  my  father 
Had  said 

Thor.     And  so  your  husband  :  —  far  from  hence,  though, 
And  humble  like  his  fortunes. 

Llan.     That's  your  sentence. 

Thor.     (To  Lady  Toppington.)     You,  madam 

Lady  Top.     Have  weak  nerves,  —  and  he's  my  husband  ! 

Llan.     True  ;  she's  exempt.     (Distant  music.)     Hark  !  music  ! 
(Sir  Joshua  and  Lady  Toppington  retire.) 

Anne.     (Clinging  to  Thorold.)     In  thine  honor  ! 

Thor.     Let  all  make  holiday.     The  ship  shall  sail 
This  tide  without  us.     (To  Anne.)     What's  ambition's  wreath 
To  love  regained  ? 

Anne.     And  what  is  love  regained, 
To  thine,  which,  sorely  tempted,  ne'er  was  lost  r 
(During  the  concluding  lines  the  crowd  gradually  approach  the  windmo 

with  banners.     Music.     Air,  "  See  the  Conquering  Hero  comes,"  as 

Thorold  turns  towards  the  ioi?idow  with  Anne.) 


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(96) 


SPENCER'S  BOSTON  THEATRE No.  CVIII. 


A   LIFE'S    RANSOM. 

IN    FIVE    ACTS. 

WRITTEN   BY 

WESTLAND     MARSTON, 


AUTHOR   OF 


The  Patrician's  Daughter  —  Strathmore  —  Philip  of  France  and  Marie  de  Meranie  - 

Anne  Blake  —  Borough  Politics  —  Heart  of  the  World — 

Gerald,  a  Dramatic  Poem. 


ORIGINAL    CASTS,  COSTUMES,   AND    THE    WHOLE    OF    THE    STAGE 

BUSINESS,  CORRECTLY   MARKED   AND   ARRANGED,  BY 

MR.  J.  B.  WRIGHT,  ASSISTANT  MANAGER 

OF  THE  BOSTON  THEATRE. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM    V.    SPENCER, 

128   Washington  Street,   (corner  op  Water.) 


S  QO 


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pioT  jo 

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A   LIFE'S   RANSOM. 


COSTUME. 


Revesdale —  Square-cut  maroon-colored  velvet  coat,  with  very  short  sleeves  and 
large  cuffs,  loose  about  the  waist,  flaps  and  pockets  very  low  at  sides;  long-flapped 
maroon  vest,  and  full  trunks;  small  gold  buttons  and  gold  holes  throughout  the 
suit :  high  black  bucket-topped  boots,  with  high  heels  and  square  toes  ;  large  slouched 
black  hat,  with  black  feathers,  narrow  gold  round  rim ;  white  cravat,  long  lace 
ends ;  brown,  very  long  flowing  ringlet  wig,  called  a  periwig ;  full  sleeves  and 
ruffles  ;  sword  and  bawdric. 

Matthew  —  Drab  cloth  suit,  heavily  trimmed  with  black  velvet;  black  wig;  ap- 
pointments same  as  Revesdale. 

Arthui — Sky  blue  or  French  gray,  with  silver  holes  and  buttons;  brown  wig; 
appointments  same  as  Revesdale. 

Bancroft  —  Plain  black  velvet  suit,  same  style  as  Revesdale  ;  black  silk  stockings  ; 
high-heeled,  square-toed  black  shoes  ;  black  velvet  shoe  tie  across  shoe ;  hat  turned 
up  at  the  two  sides:  bald,  gray,  short,  ringlet  wig. 

Drayton — Red  cloth  coat ;  gilt  buttons;  white  vest;  black  trunks;  appointments 
same  as  Revesdale. 

Mdcs —  Gray  mixed  cloth  suit;  black  velvet  holes  and  buttons;  appointments 
same  as  Revesdale. 

Holme  —  Plain  fawn  coat ;  fawn  trunks  ;  black  vest ;  same  appointments  as 
Revesdale. 

Richard  —  Plain  green  coat ;  red  vest ;  green  trunks  :  red  stockings  and  clocks ; 
shoes;  appointments  same  as  Bancroft;  brown  ringlet  wig. 

Giles  —  Loose  leather  doublet ;  green  trunks  ;  gray  stockings  ;  gray  wig ;  black, 
old  men's  shoes  ;  white  cravat ;  black  slouched  hat. 

Militia  Officers  —  Red  sack  coat,  white  holes ;  white  vest ;  white  breeches  ;  slouched 
hats;  high  black  boots;  swords  and  white  leather  belts;  white  cravats;  ringlet 
wigs. 

Landlord — Plain  drab  sack  coat ;  blue  vest;  red  trunks;  black  stockings ;  black, 
old  men's  shoes ;  bald,  brown  wig. 

Servants  —  Same  style  as  Richard,  but  plainer. 

Retainers  —  Sack  coats,  various  colors;  vests  and  trunks;  shoes  and  stockings; 
slouched  hats. 

Peasants — Same  stylo  as  retainers. 

Prince  of  Orange  —  Crimson  coat  and  trunks;  white  satin  figured  vest;  the  suit 
heavily  trimmed  with  broad  gold  lace;  red  silk  stockings;  yellow  clocks;  black 
shoes,  high,  red  heels;  immense  brown,  flowing,  ringlet  wig;  slouched  hat,  turned 
up  at  'me  side,  with  diamond  loop,  trimmed  round  with  white  ostrich  feathers,  and 
large  feathers  in  hat ;  heavy  bawdric,  and  handsome  Spanish  rapier;  appointments, 
Ac,  same  as  Revesdale. 

Sailors  —  Blue  pea  jackets ;  long-flapped  red  vests;  canvas  petticoat  trousers ;  blue 
trunks;  light-bluestockings;  black  shoes. 

Soldiers  —  Same  style  as  the  Militia,  with  cuirass  under  coat,  and  over  the  vests. 

Officers  —  Same  as  soldiers,  gold  laced. 

Felicia  —  1st  Dress  —  A  green  velvet  dress,  long  waisted ;  Elizabethian  stomacher ; 
amber  underskirt;  the  dress  looped  back,  to  show  the  rich  underskirt  completely; 
the  sleeves  tight  to  the  elbow,  turned  back  with  a  cuff,  the  same  as  the  men's  coats, 
and  a  profusion  of  lace  ruffles,  served  with  the  help  of  the  gloves  to  conceal  the 
arms;  high,  red-heeled  black  shoes  and  cross  bows;  tight  blue  silk  or  amber  stock- 
ings, clocked;  the  hair  combed  over  cushions,  from  the  forehead,  and  covered  by 
tiers  of  stiffened  lace  and  ribbon,  arranged  in  plaits,  and  rising  one  above  another 
to  a  considerable  height,  surmounted  by  a  scarf,  the  ends  of  which  hang  down  on 
either  side  ;  this  structure  was  called  a  commore  ;  patches  on  the  face  were  fashion- 
able. 2c/  Dress  —  Light  brocade  dress;  white  satin  skirt;  white  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, same  style.    3d  Dress —  Same  as  first. 

Alice  —  Plain  black  stuff  dress;  short  sleeves;  medium  cuffs  and  black  mits; 
brown  underskirt;  gray  stockings;  black  shoes,  high  heels;  high  cap;  long  ears. 

(3) 


A  LIFE'S   RANSOM. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  — 2  g.  Grounds  in  front  of  Revesdah  Castle.  The  Castle 
painted  on  flats,  with  parapets  and  walls  extending  off  R.  H.,  and  door 
of  Castle  practical,  2  E.  R.  H. 

Richard  Framfton  discovered,  leaning  thoughtfully  on  a  gun,  on  R.  c. 
Giles  and  group  of  Peasants  and  Retainers  of  Lord  Reyes- 
dale  rush  on  from  2  e.  l.  h.,  and  surround  Richard. 

Peasants.     Here's  Master  Frampton  ! 

Retainers.     Master  Richard  Frampton  !  he'll  tell  us  all. 

Enter  Alice,  door,  2  e.  r.  h. 

Alice.     What,  Richard  !  my  son  Richard  ! 

{She  makes  her  way  through  the  group  to  Frampton.) 

Rich,     (c)     So,  so,  mother  ! 

Alice.     (R.  c)     It  can't  be  true  —  I  won't  believe  'tis  true  ; 
My  young  lord  sell  his  lands  —  sell  Revesdale  Park  ! 

Giles,     (l.  h.)     The  castle,  too  —  old  almost  as  the  earth 
Dn  which  it  stands,  and  which,  since  it  has  stood, 
Sever  owned  man  for  master  but  a  Revesdale ! 

Rich-     Ay,  lands  and  castle,  all  must  go  ! 

Alice.     Why  must  ? 

Rich.     Because  the  king  won't  pay  his  debts  —  vast  sums 
3y  our  late  master,  brave  Lord  Godfrey,  raised 
To  help  the  first  King  Charles,  who  perished,  leaving 
The  claim  uncancelled.     Then  came  the  second  Charles, 
iVho  put  Lord  Godfrey  off  with  promised  payment, 
7ill  in  one  month  both  prince  and  subject  died. 
Cing  James,  his  brother's  heir,  sat  on  his  throne  ; 
■ly  master's  heir  was  beggared  ! 

Giles.     But  King  James 
Vill  give  my  lord  his  rights  ? 

Rich.     King  James  but  chid  him 
''or  thrusting  in  his  need  'midst  public  cares ; 
■0  sent  him  with  his  sister  home  to  ruin. 

1*  (5) 


6  a  life's  ransom.  [act  I. 

Giles.     Our  young  Lord  Basil  —  open  hand  that  ne'er 
Forgot  the  poor ! 

Alice.     Ay,  sirs,  and  his  sweet  sister, 
Lady  Felicia,  whom  but  to  look  on 
Were  cure  for  evil ! 

Giles.     Talking  of  evil,  look  !     {Points  off  l.  h.) 

Rich.     His  worship,  Master  Bancroft  !     "lis  his  cousin, 
Living  abroad,  to  whom  my  lord's  estate 
Stands  pledged,  to  satisfy  whose  strict  demand 
It  must  be  sold  ;  so  wills  our  magistrate. 

Giles.     Magistrate,  'sooth  !     'Twas  more  brute's  deed  than  man's 
To  hunt  to  death  by  scores,  as  Bancroft  did, 
The  poor  mistaken  souls  who  rose  with  Monmouth. 

Alice.     So  said  my  lord  and  young  Squire  Ringwood. 

Giles.     All 
To  gain  promotion  !     Magistrate  indeed  ! 
Bloodhound  ! 

Rich.     Hush,  hush !  he's  here. 

Giles  and  Peasants.     Who  cares  ? 

Enter  Bancroft,  l.  h.  1  e.     All  shrink  back  except  Richard. 

Ban.     Well,  friend,  can  I  see  your  master  ? 

(Richard,  who  polishes  his  gun  stock  vigorously,  makes  no  reply.) 

D'ye  hear  ? 
Your  master,  knave,  I  say  !     {Advancing  to  him.') 

Have  you  no  answer  ? 

Rich.     O,  it's  to  me  3rou  speak  ? 

Ban.     You  knew  it ! 

Rich.     No ; 
You  called  me  friend,  which  I  am  not ;  then  knave, 
Which  I  am  not,  not  being  your  worship's  friend. 
My  master's  in  discourse  ;  if  you  would  see  him, 
You  can  wait  his  leisure,  or  return. 

(^4  murmur  of  approbation  from  the  group.) 
To  your  tasks  ! 

Alice.     We'll  bear  your  love  and  duty  to  my  lady. 

(Peasants  and  Retainers  exeunt,  2  e.  l.  h.     Alice,  Rich- 
ard and  Giles  exeunt  door,  2  e.  r.  h.) 

Ban.     Bloodhound!     My  zeal  that  brought  those  rogues  to  justice, 
Who  leagued  with  Monmouth's  duke  against  King  James, 
Has  won  me  this  new  christening.     Arthur  Ringwood  ! 
You  taught  the  mob  to  hate  me  —  taught  this  proud 
And  ruined  lord,  who  now  lies  in  my  power  — 
Thanks  to  my  cousin's  mortgage  —  thus  to  brand  me. 
You,  too,  it  was,  who,  at  the  festive  board, 
Refused  me  for  a  comrade,  shrank  from  me 
As  from  contagion,  and  before  my  peers 
Shamed  me  forever  ;  you  whose  new  command 
In  the  militia  still  has  foiled  my  plans. 
He  little  deems  the  appointment  was  but  given, 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  7 

That,  should  his  schemes  be  treasonous,  they  might 

The  better  be  observed  and  he  entrapped. 

Bloodhound  !     I'll  earn  my  name  —  swift,  keen,  untiring  ! 

Though,  from  loose  gossip,  I  suspect  young  Ringwood 

Shared  Monmouth's  treason,  was  in  arms  for  him, 

And  that  Lord  Revesdale  knows  it.     (Looking  off,  1  e.  r.  h.) 

Soft !  'tis  Ringwood 
And  the  pet  fawn  of  the  park,  Felicia  Revesdale  ! 
'Slife  !  his  arms  free  with  her  !     The  hound's  in  ambush. 

(He  retires  through  the  door,  2  e.  r.  h.,  and  stands  concealed.) 

Enter  Matthew  Ringwood,  followed  by  Arthur  Ringwood  and 
Felicia  Revesdale,  1  e.  r.  h. 

Matt.     (l.  h.     Laughing  to  himself.}     And  she  answered,  Yes,  so 
soon  !     Ha,  ha  !  that  boy 
Has  the  world  at  his  fingers'  ends  !     To  fight  or  argue, 
Discuss  affairs  of  state,  or  win  a  woman  — 

All's  the  same  to  him.     (To  Arthur.)     Pooh,  sir  !  she  repents, 
And  droops  her  head. 

Arth.     (c.)     You  broke  so  suddenly 
Upon  our  conference 

Matt.     O,  conference  ! 
"What  two  young  hearts,  masking  for  years  with  friendship, 
Can't  fling  aside  their  vizards,  and  display 
The  honest  love  behind  them,  but  it  needs 
A  conference,  does  it  ? 

Arth.     'Twas  her  very  friendship, 
Frank,  like  a  sister's,  made  me  doubt  till  now 
Love's  deeper  spring  beneath. 

Matt.     And  what  says  the  daughter 
Of  those  grim  Normans  to  the  rich  brewer's  grandson  ? 

Fel.     (r.  h.)     That  when  she  looks  on  him,  she  has  no  thought 
To  spare  for  grandsires. 

Matt.     Tut !     How  this  news 
Will  surprise  Basil ! 

Arth.     Yes  ;  his  recent  absence, 
And  his  reserve  since  then,  have  kept  my  hopes 
Strange  to  him  yet. 

Fel.     Reserve ! 

Arth.     When  late  deposed 
From  his  colonelcy  in  the  militia, 
I  stepped  into  his  post ;  'tis  this,  I  fear, 
Rankles  his  pride,  which  deems  I  built  advancement 
On  his  disgrace. 

Matt.     Yet  you  but  took  the  office 
To  curb  the  cruel  license  of  the  soldiers, 
Prompted  by  Bancroft. 

Arth.     I  had  said  as  much  ; 
But  Basil  would  not  hear  me. 

Fel.     Bear  with  him, 


8  a  life's  ransom.  [act  I. 

My  true,  kind  brother!     By  the  king's  injustice, 
Soon  to  be  driven  from  home,  forlorn  and  poor, 
Wrong  makes  him  quick  and  proud. 

Arth.     Have  we  forgot 
That  to  his  generous  silence  and  your  shelter 
I  owed  my  life  ? 

Matt.     And  you  were  strangers  then. 
Alas  !  'poor  Monmouth  and  that  fatal  night ! 

(/«.  a  loto  and  cautious  tone,   and  advancing  to   the  front, 
Felicia  up  r.  h.) 
Oft,  Arthur,  have  I  rued  the  chance  that  threw  you, 
A  peaceful  subject,  'midst  those  hapless  rebels  ! 

Arth.     'Twas,  as  you  say,  but  chance.     My  horse's  path 
They  crossed,  leagues  from  the  field,  poor  fugitives, 
A  score  to  one  pursuer  !     A  brace  of  troopers, 
Deaf  to  their  cries,  clove  down  those  helpless  wretches, 
Staggering,  unarmed,  and  famished  !     What  could  man, 
Who  had  a  heart  and  sword,  do  less  than  I  — 
Parry  the  slaughterous  blow,  and  give  them  time 
For  flight  and  life  ? 

Matt.     Ay,  lad,  till  the  king's  men, 
Coming  to  their  comrades'  aid,  forced  you  to  fly 
For  your  own  life.     Well  that  you  were  disarmed 
And  masked  by  twilight.     Promise  never  more 
To  tempt  your  fate  so. 

Arth.     (Gayly.)     Sir,  you'd  bid  me  do  it 
Did  the  chance  come  round. 

(Felicia  advances  down  c,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm  imploringly.') 
You  too  ;  you'd  never  ask 
That  I  should  grow  so  niggard  of  my  years 
As  to  keep  down  the  impulse  just  or  kind 
That  gives  time  worth.     You'd  have  me  five,  I  know, 
Or  long  or  brief,  a  thinking,  loving  man ; 
No  torpid  thing,  that  only  measures  time 
By  the  almanac.     To  feel,  to  act,  is  life  ; 
Who  wants  these  lives  not,  sweet ;  he  only  breathes. 

Matt.     Here's  an  oration  !     Well,  'twas  worth  the  risk 
To  hear  the  rogues  tramp  by,  nor  guess  the  traitor 
Lurked  snugly  by  Felicia's  loyal  hearth.  . 

Fel.     (c.     Earnestly.)     My  brother  knew  not  that. 

Arth.     (r.  h.)     That  you  concealed  me  ? 
On  that  point  I  was  silent ;  'twas  your  wish. 
But  why  ?     I  met  him  with  his  retinue 
At  the  castle  gate,  and  told  him  all  my  plight. 

Fel.     He  must  not  know  you  passed  within  our  doors. 
I  kept  the  knowledge  from  him,  that,  if  questioned, 
He  might  deny  it  truly. 

Matt.     (l.  h.)     And  so  'scape 
The  peril  you  incurred  !     O,  wise  as  noble, 
Thou' it  worthy  of  my  boy  ! 

Arth.     And  now  to  Basil. 


8CENE   H.]  A   LIFE'S    RANSOM. 

Fel.     He's  held  by  strangers  now. 

Matt.     To-morrow,  then. 
But  mind  you  keep  our  secret,  for  I  mean 
Myself  to  tell  him.     'Twill  be  brave  to  thaw 
His  pride  in  our  warm  love.     Come,  we'll  all  cheer  him 
In  his  harsh  lot,  and  henceforth  have  one  interest, 
One  home,  one  heart  —  perhaps  one  home,  indeed  ; 
For  there's  a  grand  investment,  a  rare  toy, 

In  stone  that  Arthur  covets  —  a Well,  well, 

I'll  say  no  more  —  a  new  surprise  for  Basil ! 
You'll  keep  your  word  ;  remember,  now,  /  tell  him. 

{Exeunt  Matthew,  Arthuk,  and  Felicia,  l.  h.  1  e.) 

Reenter  Bancroft,  through  the  door,  2  e.  r.  h. 

Ba7i.     Plague  on  the  distance  and  my  own  dull  ears  ! 
I  lost  the  most  part ;  but  my  brain  is  pregnant 
"With  what  did  reach  me.     Sheltered  from  some  risk  ? 
Sheltered  by  whom  ?     Her  brother  ?     Shelter,  risk ! 
Basil  ivas  silent  !     Then  the  peril  lay 
In  what  he  knew  and  told  not.     So  I  thought. 
Young  Ringwood  was  in  arms  for  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ! 
This  modest  squire,  too,  wooes  the  fair  Felicia, 
"Which  my  lord  knows  not,  for  he  stands  aloof. 
That  wound  of  the  militia  which  I  probed 
Will  fester,  though  he  hid  the  sore  from  me. 
To  gender  hate  'twixt  the  proud  blood  of  Revesdale 
And  base-born  Ringwood  I  have  striven,  icill  strive, 
And  from  that  hate  perchance  so  work  my  ends 
As  to  sting  both,  win  the  king's  gratitude 
To  swell  my  lands  to  lift  me  into  rank. 
Sir  Richard  —  Blood/iound !     O,  I  must  walk  to  cool ! 

(Exit,  L.  H.  1  E.) 


Scene  II A  Gothic  Library   in   Revesdale   Castle,  3  and  5  G.      The 

room,  which  is  in  some  confusion,  is  hung  icith  weapons,  portraits, 
8$c.  The  arms  of  the  Revesdale  family  are  painted  on  a  window, 
which  is  partly  open  L.  H.  F.,  fronting  the  park.  Set  door  2.  e.  l.  h. 
Gothic  sofa  at  back  in  c.  Gothic  table  on  R.  H. ;  on  it  pens,  inkstand, 
parchments,  and  papers.  Four  Gothic  chairs  at  table  on  R.  h.  ;  two 
Gothic  chairs  on  L.  h. 

Lord  Revesdale,  Drayton,  Miles,  and  Holme  seated  at  a  table  on 
r.  h.  c. 

Dray.     (l.  h.  of  table.)     What  says  your  lordship  ? 

Rev.     (r.  h.  of  table.)     That  had  I  remained 
In  the  militia,  wherein,  as  you  say, 
"My  friend  displaced  me,  I  had  scorned  to  use 
The  king's  breast  'gainst  himself. 


10  a  life's  ransom,  [act  1 

Dray.     But  the  people  love  you. 
Lift  but  your  hand,  hundreds  of  stalwart  yeomen 
Will  leap  to  horse. 

Rev.     I  will  not  rashly  peril 
Those  honest,  trusting  hearts.     As  yet  I  know  not 
Your  plans,  your  strength,  or  your  associates. 

Holme.     {At  table,  on  r.  h.)    You  know  King  James  a  tyrant  to  hi) 
people, 
And  your  immediate  ruin. 

Miles.     {Lispingly,  at  l.  of  table,  on  R.  H.)     What  can  bind  you 
To  him  who's  left  you  nothing  but  a  name? 

Rev.     My  last  possession  !    You'll  forgive  me,  therefore, 
If  I'm  jealous  how  I  risk  it.     {All  rise.) 

Miles.     {Aside.)     What  a  look  ! 
They're  well  called  the  proud  Revesdales. 

Holme.     To  the  point : 
Should  William  of  Nassau  set  foot  in  England, 
Shall  he  have  aid  from  you  ? 

Rev.     I'll  answer  that 
When  I've  your  scheme  and  know  my  comrades. 

Dray.     Ere 
We  name  them,  sign  this  document.     ( Taking  parchment  from  his 

breast.)     It  prays 
Prince  William's  presence  here,  to  arbitrate 
Between  the  king  and  his  wronged  subjects. 

Rev.     {Perusing  the  paper.)    It 
Exacts  no  pledge  to  arm  in  the  quarrel  ? 

Dray.     None. 

Rev.     {Signing  it.)     'Tis  signed.     {Returns  it  to  Drayton.) 

Dray.     And  here's  the  list  of  those  who  share  our  venture. 

{Gives  it.     All  come  down. 

Rev.     Sir  Dudley  Ford,  Lord  Harwood,  Langton,  Orme. 
High  names ! 

Dray.     Meet  us  an  hour  hence  at  my  house, 
Where  those  in  league  assemble.     Meantime,  learn 
We're  bound  by  mutual  peril.     Your  subscription 
Is  treason,  and  incurs  its  sentence —  death  ! 

Rev.     For  this  you  bade  me  sign,  to  force  my  silence 
By  the  base  means  of  fear.     I  sought  to  know 
My  comrades,  and  I  know  them.     There's  your  path. 

{Pointing  to  door,  2.  E.  L.  H.) 

Dray.     Not  by  that  door,  an't  please  you.     We  require 
The  screen  of  the  forest.     For  our  late  precaution, 
Bemember  danger  brooks  not  ceremony. 
In  an  hour  we  shall  expect  you.     Friends,  to  horse  ! 

(Drayton,  Miles,  and  Holme  exeunt  by  the  open  tcindow,  -L.fiat.) 

Rev.     {Who paces  the  room,  suddenly  stopping  short.)     Psha  !  psha  ! 
Why  should  it  fret  me  that  base  hirelings 
Asked  pledges  for  my  truth  ?     'Tis  not  with  them 
I  deal,  but  with  their  cause  —  a  righteous  protest 
Against  this  tyrant  who  treads  down  our  laws, 


SCENE   II.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  11 

Breaks  every  kingly  oath,  in  the  church's  name  ; 
Slays  poor  schismatics,  while  himself  betrays 
The  church  to  Home  !     My  wronged  and  loyal  house 
Falls  from  thee,  James,  in  me  !     I'll  join  these  men, 
And  for  more  secrecy  afoot. 

{He  seises  his  hat  and  cloak  from  chair,  R.  sofa.) 

Enter  Felicia,  door  2  e.  l.  h. 

Rev.     (r.  c.      With  great  tenderness.)     Felicia  ! 

Fel.     (l.  h.)     Do  you  go  forth  ? 

Rev.     Ay,  love,  on  urgent  matters. 

Fel.     Urgent !     And  you've  not  told  them  to  your  sister  ? 

Rev.     Since  we  were  orphans,  have  I  known  a  joy 
You  knew  not  likewise  ?     'Tis  my  cares  alone 
That  would  be  secret. 

(Kissing  her  forehead  and  crossing  towards  the  door,  2  e.  l.  h.) 

Fel.     Stay,  I've  greetings  for  you 
From  Master  Ring  wood.     He  would  have  you  count 
His  heart  and  home  your  own. 

Rev.     (Bitterly.)     Was  Arthur  by 
To  confirm  this  bounty  !     {Aside.)  — He  who  flaunts  in  honors 
Stripped  from  his  friend,  and  so  lends  countenance 
To  the  court's  insult ! 

Fel.     Basil ! 

Reo.     Girl,  that  man 
Would  rise  upon  our  ruin  ! 

Fel.     {Reproachfully,  and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him.) 
Arthur  Ringwood  ! 

Rev.     {After  a  pause.)     I  may  have  been  unjust. 

Fel.     You  were  indeed. 
Then  you'll  accept  their  welcome  ;  you  will,  Basil  ? 
Are  you  too  proud  ? 

Rev.     What  shield  has  poverty 
But  pride  r     In  happier  days  you  knew  me  free 
To  all  of  worth,  as  liberal  of  kind  thoughts 
As  the  day  of  light.     My  disk  is  darkened  now !  — 
Let  it  die  out,  and  all  who  gaze  behold 
A  void  in  heaven  rather  than  glimmer  on 
By  the  pensioned  beams  of  others  ! 

Fel.     Should  you  spurn 
Those  aids  from  man  to  man,  the  loftiest  need 
To  lean  on  or  they  fall  ? 

Rev.     The  line  of  Revesdale 
May  fall ;  it  never  leaned. 

Fel.     Be  not  so  wrapped 
In  pining  for  past  greatness,  as  to  scorn 
Life's  present  blessings  !     Though  the  King 

Rev.     My  curse 
Hunt  him  to  shame  as  flagrant  as  the  glory 


12  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  [ACT    I. 

Of  our  crushed  house  !     May  —  O,  'tis  brave  to  war 
With  these  tongue  pellets  !     I've  delayed  too  long. 

(Felicia  suddenly  intercepting  him,  and  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm.) 
Why  do  you  hold  me  ? 

Fel.     Basil,  you  nurse  some  scheme 
Against  the  king. 

Rev.     Wondrous  !     You're  a  Cassandra, 
And  deal  in  prophecy. 

Fel.     Like  hers  —  of  danger. 

Rev.     Excellent ! 

Fel.     Is  there  none  ? 

Rev.     And  if  there  were, 
Did  ever  daughter  of  our  house  urge  danger 
To  bar  a  brother's  path  ? 

Fel.     She  does  not  now, 
If  duty  summons.     See,  I  loose  my  clasp. 
Say  thou  art  called  by  that  which  in  calm  hours 
Thy  heart  counts  duty,  and  I  bid  thee  go, 
Though  the  risk  be  life. 

Rev.     I  go,  then.     It  is  duty 
To  guard  a  people's  rights. 

Fel.     One  moment  yet ! 
Is  it  the  people's  rights,  or  thine  own  wrongs, 
That  sway  thee  most ! 

Rev.     What  matters  which  ? 

Fel.     Much,  Basil. 
Do  things  in  their  true  names.     Take  thou  thy  vengeance, 
If  it  be  right,  as  vengeance  :  but  don't  call  it 
Love  for  a  people's  rights. 

Rev.     Both  may  combine. 

Fel.     Scarcely.     Hate  cannot  blend  with  a  pure  will, 
And  not  corrupt  it.     Brother,  earth  has  seen 
Few  patriots.     These,  if  they  strove  with  wrong, 
Strove  first  by  reason  and  by  prayers  ;  hast  thou  ? 
They  knew  each  sounding  of  the  nation's  course  ; 
Dost  thou,  till  late  secluded  in  these  walls  ? 
If  they  did  strike,  'twas  in  extremity, 
In  grief,  at  cost  of  household  ties,  with  yearnings 
To  sheathe  the  sword  they  drew  ;  canst  thou  so  strike  ? 

Rev.     Who  lessons  me,  and  dares  to  preach  my  duties  ? 

Fel.     Thyself,  whose  truth  and  honor  in  clear  seasons 
Shone  on  thy  sister's  soul,  and,  kindling  there, 
Shine  back  to  guide  thee  now  in  hours  of  storm  ! 

Rev.     (After  a  pause,  dropping  his  cloak.) 
You're  right,  Felicia.     I  forego  this  purpose 
Till  I  have  pondered  well,  and  asked  my  heart 
If  honor  prompt  it.     I'll  not  take  revenge 
Under  the  mask  of  justice.     Yet  'twas  all 
He  had  left  me  in  my  wTeck  ! 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  13 

Fel.     All?     (Kneeling  by  his  side  and  looking  up  to  him.) 
Rev.     (Embracing  her.)     No,  my  sister  ! 

TABLEAU. 

Revesdale  in  c. 

Felicia  r.  c,  kneeling. 

END   OF   ACT   I. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I.  —  Same  as  Scene  1st,  Act  1st. 
Enter  Lord  Revesdale,  followed  by  Bancroft,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Rev.     Be  it  so,  sir  ;  it  is  your  cousin's  right, 
His  fair  undoubted  right,  to  sell  my  lands. 
So  must  my  father's  heavy  debt  be  cancelled. 

Ban.     My  kinsman,  so  he  writes  me,  needs  large  sums 
For  present  uses,  so  the  lands  must  go. 
Yet,  though  I've  not  much  cause  to  bear  you  love, 
It  frets  me  that  your  ancient,  proud  domain 
Should  pass  to  strangers. 

Rev.     All  that's  needful  else 
You  will  see  done. 

Ban.     Though  if  young  Ringwood  buys  it, 
'Twill  scarcely  fall  to  strangers. 

Rev.     Ringwood  buy  it ! 

Ban.     Has  he  not  broken  with  you  upon  this  ? 

Rev.     Never ! 

Ban.     He  might  have  thought,  perhaps,  the  old  Revesdale  blood 
Would  fire  at  such  succession,  —  the  brewer's  grandson  ! 

Rev.     (  With  an  effort.)     And  my  friend,  sir  !  —  He  told  you  his 
intent  ? 

Ban.     He  told  my  agent.     (Jestingly.)     'Tis  a  foolish  thought, 
But  yet,  had  proof  confirmed  the  general  rumor 
Of  Ringwood' s  traitorous  aid  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
He  had  found  a  different  fate  ! 

Rev.     (Regarding  him  keenly.)     There  are  such  rumors,  then  ? 

Ban.     (Aside.)     He  knows  it !     Proved,  they'd  check  the  aspiring 
pride 
That  vaults  into  your  seat. 

Rev.     Ay,  sir  ;  you've  taught  us  what  the  king's  mercy  is. 

Ban.     (Aside.)     You  taunt  me,  do  you  ? 
Even  to  my  face  ?     (With  feigned  merriment.) 
Why,  you  never  thought 
2 


14  A  life's  ransom.  [act  il 

I  meant  the  scaffold  !  —  Psha  !  the  king's  grown  lenient. 
Most  noted  traitors  'scape  with  fine  or  exile. 

Rev.     Such  converse,  Master  Bancroft,  as  affairs 
Demand  between  us,  I  would  give  with  patience 
To  you  or  any  man.     Beyond  that  point, 
You  trespass  on  my  leisure. 

Ban.     (Aside.)     Ay,  the  bloodhound 
Is  no  fit  mate  for  a  Revesdale  !     As  you  will. 
Again,  I  say,  I  bear  you  little  love, 
And  proffer  none.     But  I  respect  a  house 
As  old  as  yours,  and  hate  the  parasite 
That  thrives  upon  a  rum  !  —  (Aside.)     Yes,  he  flinched  ! 
I  stung  his  ruling  passion.     Thanks  to  that, 
And  to  my  surly  bluntness,  which  must  tell 
In  time  for  honesty,  —  I'll  mould  him  yet ! 

(Exit  Bancroft,  1  e.  l.  h.) 

Rev.     Again  he  couples  Arthur's  name  with  treason  ! 
I  must  be  wary  ;  a  chance  word,  or  look, 
Might  snare  my  friend.     My  friend  !  who  covertly 
Plots  to  be  Lord  of  Revesdale  !  —  He'd  not  steal 
So  subtly  on  my  track,  —  see  me  driven  forth 
From  my  ancestral  home,  this  native  ground 
Of  my  soul  as  well  as  body,  and  then  kindle 
His  holiday  taper  in  the  silent  halls, 
Where  my  torch  is  gray  in  ashes  ! 

Enter  Felicia,  with  Richard  and  Giles,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Fel.     Yes,  good  friends, 
I'll  bear  your  message. 

(Exeunt  Richard  and  Giles,  door  2  e.  r.  h.     Felicia  ad- 
vances to  Revesdale.) 
You're  in  thought  ? 

Rev.     (l.  h.)     No,  sister  ! 

Fel.    .(r.  h.)     Richard  and  Giles  demand  a  boon. 

Rev.     From  me ! 
What  have  I  left  to  grant  ? 

Fel.     That  where  you  go, 
They  may  go  too.     They  are  content  for  hire 
To  take  what  fortune  sends  ;  or,  unhired,  serve  you 
For  your  love,  that  never  let  them  feel  like  hirelings. 

Rev.     (Much  moved.)     True  friends  !  —  I  thank  and  bless  them. 
Age  and  sickness 
Will  chill  those  faithful  hearts,  and  ruined  Revesdale 
Must  let  them  perish  aidless. 

Fel.     None  so  perish 
Who  trust  in  Heaven,  my  brother  ! 

Rev.     You  say  well, 
And  I'll  not  murmur.     Though  another  week 
Must  see  us  strangers  here,  here  where  our  banner 
Flung,  like  a  sunward  wing,  its  mighty  shade 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  15 

O'er  a  brood  of  heroes  !  —  still  I'll  think  whom  Heaven 
Has  left  me  in  my  exile,  thee  ! 

Fel.     My  brother  !     (He  embraces  her.) 

Rev.     And  time  shall  teach  me  to  endure,  forget, 
Ay,  and  hope  too  !     There  —  I  say  hope  already  ! 

Enter  Richard,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Rich.     A  letter  for  your  lordship.     (Gives  it.)     "Would  it  bore 
Some  news  to  cheer  him  !  (Exit,  door  2  e.  r.  h.) 

Rev.     (Cheerfully.)     We've  this  comfort,  sister, 
Our  poverty  is  proof  against  ill  tidings.   (He  opens  and  peruses  the  letter.) 
Ah,  ah  ! 

Fel.     You're  moved  ! 

Rev.     They'll  cheat  me  and  die  out, 
These  words  of  light !  —  O,  like  the  tints  of  rainbows, 
They  build  heaven's  arch  on  storm,  and,  being  as  bright, 
Perhaps  may  vanish  like  them  ! 

Fel.     What  is  this  ? 

Rev.     Such  joy  as  almost  dazzles  me  to  doubt. 
Redemption  of  our  house  and  wealth,  though  wealth 
I  prize  but  for  our  house  ! 

Fel.     Is  this  news  sure  ? 

Rev.     I  trust  so  ;  you  might  make  it  sure.     It  comes 
From  our  best  and  most  tried  friend 

Fel.     Dear,  kind  Lord  Norville, 
Who  pressed  your  suit  at  court  ? 

Rev.     Yes  ;  he  has  a  hold, 
He  thinks,  upon  the  minister  who  needs 
His  special  service,  and  the  price  he  asks 
Is  justice  to  his  friend ! 

Fel.     To  you  !     O,  bless  him  ! 

Rev.     That's  what  he  asks  for.     Bless  him,  for  you  can  ! 
This  flashed  on  me  at  times  when  you  met  in  London. 

Fel.     What  flashed  upon  you,  Basil  ? 

Rev.     What  he  writes 
So  plainly  here  —  forgive  my  joy's  abruptness  — 
He  loves  you,  and  would  wed  you  ! 

Fel.     Me  !  —  Lord  Norville  !  — 
Impossible  ! 

Rev.     Why  so  ?  —  My  friend  is  noble 
In  heart,  mien,  birth 

Fel.     I  know  it. 

Rev.     One  for  whom 
You've  oft  avowed  regard,  which  must,  in  time, 
Ripen  to  love ! 

Fel.     (Aside.)     Although  I  promised  silence, 
I  must  reveal  my  troth  to  Arthur.  —  Brother, 
I  cannot  wed  Lord  Norville 

Rev.     Cannot !  —  Pause, 
Think  what's  at  stake  —  the  upholding  of  our  line 


16  a  Lite's  ransom.  [act  ii. 

In  honor  by  his  aid  !     They'll  grant  his  -wife  — 
He  writes  it  —  what  they  might  refuse  his  friend. 

Fel.     You  talk  not  like  yourself. 

Rev.     Myself !      Our  race 
Adjures  thee  through  thv  brother  ! 

Fel.     Basil ! 

Rev.     {Pointing  to  the  castle.')     Look 
On  that  gray  pile  —  from  base  to  parapet 
A  fane  of  glory  !  —  stone  ?     'Tis  built  of  deeds, 
Compact  with  hearts'  blood  ;  heroes  trod  its  courts 
AVhose  names  are  histories  ;  voices  from  its  halls 
Swept  o'er  a  realm  like  winds  that  wake  a  sea  ; 
A  tide  of  memory  richer  than  the  sun 
Pours  through  each  loophole,  and  its  very  dust 
Sown  -with  tradition  —  glory's  fallen  seed 
Stirs  with  the  quickening  future  ! 

Fel.     O,  beware  ! 
Such  pride  tempts  Heaven. 

Rev.     Heaven  made  the  vale  —  it  sinks  ; 
The  peak  —  it  soars.     I  tell  thee  to  my  frame 
It^  vital  flood's  less  dear  than  to  my  soul 
The  trust  my  fathers  left.     Felicia,  think  — 
The  court  against  me,  not  a  chance  to  rise 
In  war  or  council,  doomed  to  sordid  need 
And  banishment  from  hence  —  as,  if  you  scorn 
Lord  Xorville's  suit,  we  are —  what  path  remains 
Of  enterprise  or  greatness  ? 

Fel.     Brother,  greatness 
Is  of  the  soul,  not  fortune.     Emulate 
The  spirit  of  our  sires,  but  leave  to  Heaven 
The  question  of  their  fame. 

Eater  Bancroft,  1  e.  l.  h. 

Rev.     I  ask  my  sister 
For  life,  or  what  is  dearer,  and  she  deigns  me 
A  homily  for  answer. 

{Turning  from  her,  he  perceives  Bancroft  on  l.  h.) 
Here  again  ?  (  They  converse  apart  from  Felicia.) 

Ban.     (l.   h.)     My   errand's  brief.      Young   Ringwood   asks  my 
agent 
For  an  inventory  ;  will  a-ou  grant  it  ? 

Rev.     (c.)     How  r 

Ban.     A  catalogue  of  all  your  movables  — 
Plate,  pictures,  suits  of  armor,  family  jewels  — 
No,  jewels  pass  as  heirlooms. 

Rev.     You  jest ! 

Ban.     'Tis  natural ; 
Men  like  to  know  the  worth  of  that  they  buy. 
But  he  wrote  in  secret,  and  with  emphasis 
Forbade  that  vou  should  know  it. 


SCENE   I.]  A   LIFE'S    HANSOM.  17 

Rev.     Wrote  in  secret ! 

Ban.     But  as  we  could  not  take  the  inventory 
As  yet  without  your  license,  I  was  bound 
To  let  you  hear. 

Rev.     Such  insult !     O,  my  ears 
Have  played  me  false  ! 

Ban.     Then  trust  your  eyes,  and  read 
His  letter  to  my  agent,  who  waits  yonder. 

Rev.     In  his  own  hand  ! 

Ban.     'Tis  strange !     I  thought  these  plans 
Bore  on  his  contract  for  your  sister. 

Rev.     (Starting,  and  glancing  rapidly  at  Felicia,  up  B.  H.  C.) 
Hush! 
I  must  hear  all ! 

Ban.     You  can't  be  ignorant 
Of  his  suit. 

Rev.     His  suit  —  to  wed  my  sister  !     Such  an  aim 
Had  jarred  upon  my  love  when  most  in  tune  ! 
But  now  —     You  bear  him  malice ! 

Ban.     I  don't  dote 
Either  on  him  or  you  ;  but  I  brook  the  proud 
More  easily  than  the  false. 

Rev.     (Aside.)     "Why  should  I  doubt 
This  man  r     Though  fierce  and  violent,  he  wears 
His  nature  frankly,  shows  his  plain  distaste 
For  me,  nor  stoops  to  counterfeit  a  smoothness, 
As  would  dissemblers. 

Ban.     You  may  think  me  bitter. 
Well,  I  come  of  an  old  stock  myself,  and  like  not 
Your  treacherous  upstarts.     Let  me  ask  you  this  : 
Who,  when  the  court  dismissed  you  the  militia, 
Leaped  to  the  vacant  post,  making  your  slight 
His  honor  ?     Prudent  friend  !     Who  now  by  stealth, 
Lest  your  pride  wake  and  thwart  him,  seeks  possession 
Of  your  house  and  union  with  your  blood,  to  gild 
His  base  beginnings  ? 

Rev.     Hold  !  I'll  sift  your  story 
But  to  disprove  it.     Hither  !     I'll  return 
Anon,  Felicia.     Hither,  sir;  unfold 
This  business  as  we  walk. 

(Exeunt  Revesdale  and  Bancroft,  1  e.  l.  h.) 

Fel.     (Coming  foncard,  c.)     O,  bitter  strait  ! 
I  must  be  false  to  love  —  nay,  worse  —  to  conscience, 
Or  crush  my  brother's  hopes.     Alas  that  pride 
Should  blight  a  heart  so  rich  !     Most  perilous 
Is  pride  to  noble  natures.     Other  sins 
Stand  naked  and  repel ;  but  pride  doth  filch 
The  garb  of  poetry,  and  the  flawed  idol 
Shows  like  a  god.  (Retires  up  centre,  L.) 

2* 


18  a  life's  hansom.  [act  II. 


Enter  Matthew  and  Arthur  Ring-wood,  r.  h.  1  e. 

Arth.     (r.  h.)     See!  'tis  herself  —  Felicia! 
How  still,  how  mute,  how  like  a  living  dream 
That's  conscious  of  its  bliss,  and  will  not  stir 
Lest  motion  end  it  ! 

Matt.     Dream,  forsooth  !  —  (Aside.)     He  talks 
Poetry  like  the  laureate  !     Dream  !     Do  dreams 
Glow  with  a  flush  like  hers,  or  do  their  steps 
Come  tinkling  on  men's  hearts  like  hers  on  thine  ? 

Arth.     (Crosses  to  c.     Embracing  her.)     My  own  ! 

Fel.     Arthur  !     (Advancing,  l.  h.) 

Matt.     Is  she  a  dream,  lad  ? 

Arth.     How ! 
There's  trouble  in  thine  eye. 

Fel.     (l.  h.)     I'm  glad  you're  come. 

Matt.     (r.  h.)     I'm  glad  we're  here.     He  dragged  me  from  my 
pillow 
Straight  to  my  horse.     You  lovers  that  are  fed 
On  the  dews  of  violets,  you  sleep  walkers 
In  the  realms  of  fancy,  that  can  take  your  rest 
With  open  eyes,  should  pity  common  folk 
That  have  digestions,  and  that  want  their  breakfast. 

Arth.     (c.)     But  Avhere  is  Basil  ? 

Matt.     Is  our  secret  safe  ? 
Is  he  yet  i'  the  dark  ? 

Fel.     My  friend,  my  father ! 

Matt.     Well ; 
Speak,  love  ! 

Fel.     Untoward  affairs  have  vexed  my  brother. 
You'll  treat  him  gently  ? 

Matt.     Gently  !     Why,  how  else 
But  gently  should  I  treat  him  ?     I  bestow 
My  boy  —  than  whom  a  nobler  never  blessed 
A  father's  heart  —  upon  him  for  a  brother. 
Methinks  that's  gentle. 

Arth.     Look  where  comes  my  friend  ! 
How  rapt  in  meditation ! 

Reenter  Revesdale,  1  e.  l.  h. 

Matt.     ( To  Felicia.)     You'll  not  leave  us  ? 

Fel.     (Observing   Revesdale    closely.)      No,    no  ;    'tis    better    I 

remain. 
Matt.     (Laughing.)     Draw  back ; 
He's  in  a  trance  of  deep  philosophy. 

(They  retire  a  few  steps  to  the  back,  unperceived  by  Revesdale.) 
Rev.     Wooes  her  in  secret,  does  he  ?     Wastes  no  breath 
To  win  my  sanction,  who  should  thank  my  luck 
That  my  home  and  sister  please  him  !     Our  alliance, 


SCENE    I.']  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  19 

"lis  true,  has  been  held  priceless  ;  but  this  broker 

In  decayed  honors  knows  that  it  befits 

The  needy  to  be  humble.     Is't  for  thee, 

Thou  climber  by  the  clefts  of  others'  ruin, 

My  sister  has  forsworn  her  happiness, 

And  balked  with  such  soaring  sand  my  thirsty  eyes 

Of  the  fount  before  them  ?     Not  so  ;  my  friend  Norville 

Stays  at  his  scat  in  Hampshire.     I'll  set  forth 

This  hour  to  see  him,  and  so  gain  delay 

For  a  wiser  answer. 

(Matthew,  l.  c,  Arthur,  r.  c,  and  Felicia,  r.  h.,  come 
forward  J) 

Matt.     (l.  c.)     Save  you,  noble  student ! 
You've  solved  a  knotty  problem. 

Rev.     (l.  h.)     Sir,  you  have  it. 

Arth.     I  give  you  joy  !     Your  hand. 

Rev.     'Tis  not  for  sale. 

Arth.     (r.  c.)     For  sale  ! 

Matt.     Nay,  nay  !     We're  here 
To  join  hands,  not  deny  them.     Faith,  my  lord, 
You  must  clear  that  clouded  brow.     I  would  acquaint  you 
With  my  heiress  and  my  new-found  daughter  ! 

Rev.     So, 
Your  daughter {Aside.)     It  goes  smoothly  ! 

Matt.     You're  amazed. 
'Twill  crown  your  wonder  when  I  say  how  long 
You've  known  her,  you,  sir  —  that,  in  brief,  she  stands 
With  her  affianced  husband  there,  ay,  there. 

{Pointing  to  Arthur,  r.  c,  and  Felicia,  on  R.  h.) 
Go,  boy,  and  bless  them  ! 

Rev.     Ingrate  that  I  am, 
I  have  no  knee  to  thank  you. 

Arth.     You'll  not  mar 
Our  joy  by  your  dissent  ?     It  was  but  yesterday 
I  dared  to  hope 

Rev.     What  you  must  hope  no  more  ! 

{Restraining  himself,  and  with  formal  courtesy.') 
Sir,  for  the  honor  you  design  our  house 
I  thank  you,  and  decline  it. 

Matt.     What !  decline 
My  boy  !     Adversity  has  turned  his  brain. 
Decline  my  Arthur  ! 

Arth.     Basil,  pardon  me.     {Crosses,  c) 
Your  sister's  love  Avas  her  own  gift.     I  stand, 
However  humble,  dignified  in  this  — 
That  she  has  chosen  me,  and  girt  my  life 
With  her  bright  zone  of  love.     To  yield  her,  then, 
Must  be  a  pang  to  me  —  a  worse  than  pang, 
A  crime,  to  her.     For  her  sake 

Rev.     {Ironically.)     For  her  sake ! 

Arth.     Yes,  for  her  sake,  my  lord.     I  do  not  boast 


20  a  life's  ransom.  [act  n. 

A  storied  name.     Perchance  mine  never  waved 

Embroidered  on  a  flag,  or  rallied  hosts 

In  the  shock  of  battle.     Past  our  own  domain 

The  hind  at  plough  may  hear  it  and  plod  on, 

Nor  check  his  careless  whistle.     Do  you  ask 

My  title,  then,  in  this  !     'Tis  here  —  she  loves  me  ! 

Spite  of  all  want  and  accident,  she  loves  me, 

Finds  love  that  answers  hers,  finds  truth  to  lean  on, 

Finds  sympathies  that  feed  her  root  of  joy, 

And  keep  it  verdant.     If  I  give  not  these, 

I  have  indeed  no  claim  ;  but  giving  them, 

My  lot  grows  proud.     I  am  something  to  myself 

If  aught  to  her.     I'll  not  withdraw  the  faith 

She  prizes,  till  she  say,  Sir,  take  it  back  — 

/  no  more  need  it. 

Fel.     Never,  never,  Arthur, 
Can  she  say  that  !     O  brother  ! 

Matt.     Stand  apart, 
My  boy,  and  let  them  speak.    (Arthur  and  Matthew  retire  up  c.) 

Rev.     And  so  you'll  blight 
My  future  and  your  own  for  a  light  mood 
That  dates  from  yesterday  —  a  whim,  a  nothing  ! 

Fel.     (r.  h.)     A  nothing  !     All  new  life,  that  struck  its  fibres 
Deep  down  before  it  budded  !     Nothing  !     Basil, 
Earth  has  a  thousand  destinies  for  man  ; 
For  us,  one  —  love  !     Man's  massive  trunk  puts  forth 
Unnumber'd  branches  ;  lop  them,  they  renew  ; 
But  we  who  cling  around  him,  severed  thence, 
Are  prostrate  once  forever. 

Rev.     (l.  h.)     Credulous  girl, 
Be  warned  !     What  Ringwood  seeks  in  this  alliance 
Is  his  advancement,  not  your  love.     For  this, 
Unknown  to  me,  he  lured  you  step  by  step. 

Fel.     Your  frenzy  speaks  ! 

Rev.     For  this,  by  stealth  he  traffics 
For  our  domain,  as  if  to  seize  our  eyry 
Made  him  the  eagle  —  does  this,  and  commands 
That  the  knowledge  be  kept  from  me  ! 

Fel.     Question  him ; 
He'll  explain  all. 

Rev.     (Ironically.')     To  be  sure  he  will !     And  now, 
To  save  you  and  those  hopes  he  would  eclipse, 
Listen  !  I'm  bound  for  a  sudden  journey.     Ere 
I  go,  decide  —  a  suitor  or  a  brother  ? 

Fel.     (Seizing  his  hand.)     You  cannot  mean 

Rev.     Renounce  him  ! 

Fel.     He  has  loved  me,  and  I  cannot ;  I  have  pledged 
My  love  to  him,  and  will  not ;  'tis  your  wish 
To  cast  me  off,  not  mine  to  lose  you,  brother. 
I  must  be  true  —  I  wed  him  ! 

(Arthur  comes  down  r.  h.,  Matthew  on  l.  r.) 


SCENE    I.]  A   LIFE'S    RANSOM.  21 

Rev.     Free  my  hand  ! 
(To  Arthur.)     Sir,  till  your  gold  gives  right  to  unlock  my  gates, 
You  pass  them  not  again.     Release  me  ! 

Fel.     (Clinging  to  him.~)     Brother  ! 

Rev.     When  next  we  meet  I  see  thee  Norville's  wife, 
His  wife  affianced,  or  a  stranger  —  strange 
Thenceforth  to  sight,  thought,  love ;  thy  name  a  sound, 
Thy  place  a  void,  thy  very  memory  dead  ! 

(He  breaks  away  from   Felicia,  and  rushes  out,  1  E.  L.  H. 
She  sinks  back  into  Arthur's  arms,  on  R.  h.  c.) 

Fel.     Bear  witness,  heart,  I  had  no  choice  but  this  ! 

TABLEAU. 

Arthur,  supporting  Felicia,  on  R.  c.  Matthew,  on  L.  c. 

Quick  Drop. 

END    OF   ACT   SECOND. 


ACT  III. 


Scene   I.  —  An   Oak    Chamber   in   Revesdah    Castle,   1  g.     Door  in 
centre,  leading  to  chapel.     Night —  lamp  on  table,  on  R.  h. 

Enter,  1  e.  l.  h.,  Alice  and  Richard,  ushering  in  Arthur  Ringwood. 

Alice.     This  way,  your  honor —  this  way,  Master  Arthur  ! 
May  it  prove  a  joyful  day,  or  rather  night. 
You're  kindly  welcome. 

Rich.     Welcome !     You  forget 
'Tis  for  the  young  squire  here  to  welcome  us. 
The  castle  now  is  his. 

Alice.     How  thy  wits  wander  ! 

Arth.     What  says  good  Alice  ? 

Rich.     Nay,  she'll  not  believe 
That  you've  bought  Revesdale,  and  are  lord  of  it. 

Alice.     Revesdale' s  the  lord  of  Revesdale.     In  the  time 
Of  my  grandsire's  grandsire,  it  had  been  so  years 
Beyond  his  count. 

Arth.     It  was  so  then. 

Alice.     What  then  was 
Must  be  so  still.     I'm  grown  to  old  too  change. 

Arth,     Too  faithful,  say. 

Alice.     I  see  now  why  my  son 
Called  you  the  lord  of  Revesdale.     'Tis  because 
You'll  wed  the  lady  of  Revesdale.     (To  Richard.) 


22  a  life's  ransom.  [act  m. 

Thy  poor  wits 
That  once  wast  shrewd  !     'Tis  not  the  wife  gives  rank, 
But  the  husband.  —  Rest  ye,  gentles,  for  a  while  ; 
I'll  bring  my  beauty  to  ye,  my  dear  child  — 
I'll  bring  the  bride  anon.  {Exit,  c.  D.  R.  h.) 

Enter  Matthew  Ringwood,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Matt.     The  priest  attends, 
And  all's  prepared.     A  word  with  you,  friend  Richard, 
On  this  near  marriage. 

Arth.     His  true  service  claims 
Full  confidence.  —  {To  Richard.)     Your  lady  takes  a  husband 
In  her  brother's  absence  —  nay,  against  his  will. 
You  like  not  that,  nor  I ;  but  reasons  strong 
And  just  enforce  it. 

Rich.     What  my  mistress  does 
Must  needs  be  right. 

Arth.     True  ;  but  your  lord  being  adverse, 
"We  would  not  use  such  public  ceremony 
As  might  offend  him  ;  therefore  hold  our  union 
Private,  as  we  would  have  it. 

Rich.     I'll  be  heedful. 

{He  retires   to  back,   and  occupies   himself  in  arranging  the 
apartment.) 

Matt.     Knows  yet  Felicia  why  we  bought  the  castle  ? 

Arth.     She  does.     I  told  her  that,  should  chance  restore 
Her  brother's  wealth,  it  should  again  be  his. 

Matt.     A  costly  purchase  !     Ringwood  must  be  sold 
To  stock  our  empty  coffers.     But  for  that, 
Its  old  walls  had  received  you. 

Rich.     (l.  h.)     See,  my  mistress  ! 

Enter  Felicia,  in  bridal  attire,  accompanied  by  Alice,  centre 
door,  R.  h. 

Fel.     {To  Alice.)     Await  me  here.     {Advancing,  c.)     An  unat- 
tended bride, 
No  kindred  or  companions  to  present  me 
To  my  dear  lord,  I  do  present  myself. 

Arth.     (r.  h.)     There  is  no  herald  to  thy  love  so  fit 
As  its  own  music. 

Matt.     (l.  h.)     Bless  you  for  his  sake, 
My  brave,  true  child  ! 

Arth.     And  yet  my  heart,  Felicia, 
Half  shrinks  to  take  its  treasure.     If  one  doubt 

Fel.     (c.)     There's  no  doubt.     I  have  weighed 
Each  point  of  duty.     Basil,  ere  he  went, 
Left  me  these  written  words  :   "  By  all  that  makes 
An  oath  inviolable,  I'll  ne'er  consent 
To  see  you  Ringwood's  wife."     That  oath  he'll  keep. 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  23 

His  journey's  to  your  rival's  home,  in  hopes 

His  suit  may  shake  my  purpose.     To  await 

Basil's  return,  what  were  it  but  to  wage 

A  fruitless  strife,  and  widen  for  no  cause 

Our  household  wounds  ?     In  all  becomes  a  sister 

I'd  drain  my  heart  for  him  ;  but  in  that  love 

Which  holds  not  of  our  kin,  but  straight  from  Heaven, 

Doth  blend  two  souls  in  one  —  who  owns  that  claim, 

Must  own  it  paramount. 

Arth.     O,  pardon  me, 
If  jealousy  for  thy  pure  nobleness 
Makes  question  still.     What  if  our  union,  private, 
Unknown  beyond  these  walls,  yet  linking  us 
In  closest  contact,  draw  on  thee  reproach 
From  the  malignant  ?     What  if  they  should  say 

Matt.     What  can  they  say  but  that  an  honored  lady 
Receives  two  honored  guests  ?     In  a  few  days 
Her  brother  will  return,  and  all  be  told. 

Fel.     My  love  past  doubt,  I'  11  place  beyond  dispute. 

Alice.     (Coming  forioard,  r.  h.)     Now,  ladybird,  the  priest 
Attends  ;   my  darling's  staid  for. 

Matt.     May  Heaven's  grace 
Bless  thee,  my  daughter  !  —  'Tis  some  forty  years 
Since,  as  that  boy  stands  now,  I  stood  with  one 
Gentle  and  fair  like  thee.     She  left  me  him 
For  my  age's  solace  ;  and  I  thmk,  though  friends 
Are  scanty  here,  perhaps  an  angel's  eyes 
Look  on  these  bridals.  —  There  !  —  don't  think  that  grief 
Flows  in  these  drops.     I  see  the  future  through  them, 
The  happy  future  !  —  Basil  reconciled, 
As  he  must  be  when  he  knows  us,  a  glad  group 
Bound  the  old  man  at  the  hearth,  and,  in  good  time, 
Perhaps  upon  his  knees  —  What  was  I  saying  ? 
Lean  on  your  bridesman,  girl.     Now,  boy,  your  arm 
To  Mistress  Alice  ! 

Arth.     Alice ! 

Alice.     Sir,  that  ever. 

Arth.     (Placing  her  arm  in  his.)     I  shall  claim  my  kiss  ! 

Alice.     Ah,  well-a-day  ! 

Matt.     Come,  daughter  ! 

(Exeunt  Arthur  with  Alice,  Matthew  with  Felicia,  into 
the  adjoining  chapel,  C.  D.  L.  H.  The  music  of  an  organ  is 
heard  behind.) 


24  a  life's  ransom.  [act  hi. 


Scene  II.*  —  An  apartment  in  a  roadside  Hostelry,  3  G.  Set  fireplace, 
R.  h.  2  E.  Drayton,  Miles,  atid  Holme  seated  at  table,  R.  H.,  before 
the  fire.  On  it  a  bottle  of  xoine  and  three  wine  glasses.  Three  chairs 
on  R.  H.  A  large  screen  behind  them  divides  the  apartment.  Table 
and  two  chairs  on  l.     Set  door,  2  e.  l.  h. 


Table.       *  Chair. 


Large  Screen, 

\Ch 

Miles. 
Drayton.f  Table.)  Holme. 

Cen 


Dray.     Alone  ? 

Miles.     (Looking  behind  the  screen.}     Not  a  mouse  hears. 

Dray.     One  last  cup 
To  our  patron,  ere  we  move. 

Holme.     Drink  deep  —  Success 
To  Russell  and  his  mission!     (All  drink.) 

Now  or  never 
Is  the  adventure's  time.     The  people's  heart 
Would  leap  to  it. 

Dray.     These  Dutchmen  never  hurry. 

Miles.     Fill  up  !     Our  task's  done,  and  we've  baffled  Bancroft. 

Holme.     "We're  safer,  being  these  thirty  miles  apart. 
I  liked  not  his  close  conference  with  Lord  Revesdale. 

Dray.     No  danger  there  ;  a  Revesdale  ne'er  betrayed. 
And  my  lord  was  in  our  power,  having  signed  to  treason, 
Whose  penalty  is  death. 

Holme.     {Refilling  his  glass.)     So  his  lands  are  sold. 

Dray.     It  had  been  gold  well  spent,  had  some  we  wot  of 
Bought  Revesdale  Castle.     Here's  the  plan  oft  —  see  ! 
A  height  commanding  all  the  bay. 

(He  exhibits  the  plan,  and,  as  they  examine  and  discuss  it, 
Revesdale  enters  unobserved,icith  the  Landlord,door  2  e.L.h.) 

Rev.     Wine,  host, 
And  a  fresh  horse  !  and  quickly.     I'd  reach  home 
Ere  night.  (Exit  Landlord,  door  2  E.  L.  h.) 

Disastrous  chance,  that  called  my  friend 
From  his  house  before  I  reached  it,  and  so  wasted 


*  An  interval  of  a  day  is  supposed  to  elapse  between  the  first  s^d  j^c- 


ond  Scenes  of  this  Act. 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  25 

My  days  in  the  vain  hope  of  his  return. 

(Landlord  reenters,  door  2  e.  l.  h.,  with  salver,  and  bottle  of 
tcine,  and  glass,  and  places  them  on  table,  L.  Exit  Landlord, 
2  E.  L.  H.) 

Strangers  !     (He  retires  to  back  of  screen,  and  sits.) 

Dray.     (On  R.  h.)     Ay,  Revesdale  Castle's  in  bad  hands. 

Miles.     (On  r.  h.)     In  upstart  Ringwood's,  who  refused  our  league, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  cause  lacked  better  vouchers  ! 

Holme.    (On  r.  h.)    How  brooks  the  proud  Lord  Basil  to  see  Ring- 
wood 
Master  of  Revesdale  ? 

Miles.     Soon  to  wed  his  sister. 

Holme.     A  bridegroom  who  should  blazon  on  his  shield 
Three  vats,  with  crest  —  a  malt-sack  ! 

Dray.     'Tis  well  Revesdale 
Has  been  of  late  from  home  ;  though  they  were  friends, 
He'd  scarcely  brooked  young  Ringwood's  license,  or 
This  gossip  on  his  sister.     (All  laugh,  amidst  lohich  they  rise.) 

Miles.     Faith,  the  pair 
Should  marry  quickly,  lest  impatient  Cupid 
Trip  Hymen  up  while  plodding  to  the  altar.     (Renewed  laughter.') 

Dray.     Come,  come  !     The  day  wears  down. 

Holme.     Have  with  you  ! 

Dray.     (  To  Miles,  who  refills  his  glass.)     Sirrah  ! 
D'ye  mean  to  sit  your  horse  ? 

Miles.     (Draining  the  bottle.)     There,  there  —  I  come  ! 

(Exeunt  Drayton,  Miles,  and  Holme,  1  e.  r.  h.) 

Rev.     (Coming  forward.)     Miles,  Holme,  and  Drayton  !    my  do- 
main has  passed 
To  Ring  wood  —  They're  from  the  very  spot 
That  was  our  home  —  teas  for  five  hundred  years  ! 
They  poured  their  gibes  even  on  Felicia. 
'Tis  plain  her  wooing,  then,  is  bruited  far. 

(After  a  pause,  with  uncontrollable  passion.) 
"Would  hurricanes  had  strewed 

Earth  with  my  towers  ;  would  that  the  earth,  agape 
To  feed  on  pride,  had  gulped  them  !  —  Wed  Felicia  ! 
Our  blood,  that  sprang  from  mountain  heights  of  time, 
Caught  the  first  rays  of  glory,  and  conversed 
With  unstaled  lightnings  while  the  world  was  dark  — 
Had  fate  no  blast  to  freeze,  no  torrid  heat 
To  scorch  even  to  its  bed  that  stream,  or  e'er 
It  lapsed  into  a  sluice,  and  turned  a  mill-wheel  ? 
Well,  well,  well,  well ! 

(Drinks  excitedly,  and  throws  himself  into  a  chair,  up  R.  H.) 

Enter  Bancroft,  door  2  e.  l.  h. 

Ban.     Those  I  sought  not  here  ! 
Mine  host  is  ignorant,  or  bribed.  —  (Aside.)     How,  Revesdale  ! 
He  meets  my  very  wish.     That  scrupulous  sense 
3 


26  a  life's  ransom.  [act  III. 

Called  honor,  sways  him  so,  that  in  cool  blood 

'Twere  vain  to  tempt  him  ;  but  I've  news  will  lash 

His  passions  into  fury  —  fact,  broad  fact, 

The  man  whom  most  he  hates  his  sister's  guest, 

And  by  a  village  matron  found  at  night 

Where  no  foot  but  a  husband's  should  intrude. 

This,  if  I  know  my  lord,  shall  gain  my  ends, 

And  so  arouse  his  pride,  that,  like  a  sea, 

In  fury  and  unconscious,  he'll  cast  up 

His  inmost  secrets.  —  (Feigning  surprise.')     Ah  !  whom  do  I  look  on  ? 

Lord  Revesdale  !  —  '  Tis  my  honored  lord  ! 

Rev.     (Fiercely.)     Your  will  ?     (Down  R.  H.) 
Why  mock  with  this  feigned  respect  a  ruined  outcast  ? 

Ban.     (l.  h.)    Because  you  are  one  ;  I  can  show  respect, 
And  not  be  thought  to  flatter. 

Rev.     (Recklessly.)     Right! — at  least 
I'm  a  gainer  that  way  ! 

Ban.     (Aside.)     Wine  or  rage,  or  both 
Have  fevered  him.  —  The  better  !  —  you've  heard  all  ? 

Rev.     (Aside.)     Peace,  heart !     Thy  griefs  are  not  to  prate  of, 
As  hawkers  prate  their  ballads.  —  Yes,  sir,  all. 

Ban.     That  your  castle's  sold  ? 

Rev.     Ay. 

Ban.     And  to  whom,  ? 

Rev.     That,  too. 

Ban.     You  bear  it  nobly.     Strangers  were  more  loud 
In  your  behalf  than  you.     No  man  would  bid 
For  your  inheritance,  save  Arthur  Ringwood. 

Rev.     It  fell  to  him  cheaply,  then  ? 

Ban.     This  fortitude  — 
Though  I  rejoice  at  it  —  seems  more  than  natural. 
Dull  wit !     You  have  compounded  with  young  Ringwood, 
Renewed  your  friendship  !     To  be  sure  you  have  ! 
Well,  well !     'Twas  prudent ;  you  had  no  resource 
But  to  yield  your  sister,  and  to  trust  his  bounty. 

Rev.     You're  venturous,  sir  ! 

Ban.     Plague  on't !  my  rough,  blunt  way. 
I  might  have  guessed  before, 
That  you  were  reconciled,  or  he  had  not  dared, 
While  Revesdale  yet  was  yours,  to  come  there  wooing, 
Against  your  strict  command. 

Rev.     When  I  left  home  — 
I  mean,  left  Revesdale  ? 

Ban.     There  the  next  day  found  him, 
The  next  to  that,  the  third ;  at  last  he  staid. 

Rev.     Staid  !  where,  at  Revesdale,  and  my  sister 

Ban.     There, 
I'm  balked.     If  with  your  leave  he  wooed  her,  why 
Forget  all  caution  in  his  interviews, 
And  draw  men's  gossip  on  her  ? 

Rev.     Gossip ! 


scene  ii.]  a  Lite's  ransom.  27 

Ban.     Well, 
I'm  loth  to  call  it  scandal,  but  the  world 
Will  judge  by  what  it  sees. 

Rev.     Judge  what  ?     (Bancroft  averts  his  face.)     Judge  what  ? 

Ban.     What  would  you  judge  yourself,  if  a  gallant, 
Unwedded,  sought  a  maiden  in  her  home, 
No  father  near  nor  brother,  she  alone,  — 
Sought  her  at  eve,  and  had  not  left  at  dawrn  ? 
At  least,  he  slept  at  Revesdale  yesternight. 

Rev.     'Neath  the  same  roof  with  her? 

Ban.     Nay,  one  despatched 
On  an  errand  to  your  sister,  unawrares 
Entering  the  boudoir  which  adjoins  her  chamber, 
Found  him  there  late. 

Rev.     Iti  her  chamber  ? 

Ban.     Nay,  I  said 
The  adjoining  room  :  now  though  I  charge  no  guilt 

Rev.     Guilt ! 

Ban.     You're  so  intemperate  :  I  only  say 
'Twas  indiscreet ! 

Rev.     'Twas  indiscreet !  —  Ah  !  now 
The  jests  those  men  cast  on  her  flash  upon  me 
In  their  foul  sense  !  —  Felicia,  a  theme 
For  ribald  tongues,  a  name  for  reeking  lips 
To  mouth  between  the  drainings  of  a  flagon, 
A  key-note  to  the  chorus  of  such  laughter 
As  shakes  a  tavern  ! 

Ban.     (Aside.)     The  gale  whistles  now  ! 

Rev.     My  innocent  one  that  in  her  orphanhood 
Flew  to  my  bosom  dovelike  ;  whose  small  hand 
Our  dying  mother  clasped  hi  mine  to  guard, 
And  sanctified  love's  natural  bonds  at  birth, 
By  prayers  in  death  ;  my  darling  whom  I  loved 
Even  as  my  better  self !  O,  traitor,  why 
Not  thrust  at  my  heart  only  ?     Stripped,  forlorn, 
And  humbled,  one  pang  more  had  cost  me  little. 
But  she,  my  sister  !  —  There  be  eyes  in  heaven 
That  would  forget  the  patience  of  the  place, 
And  haunt  me  with  reproach,  if  I  forgave  him  ! 

Ban.     'Tis  sure  he  failed  in  decent  reverence  to  her. 

Rev.     Nay,  had  she  been  mere  pulseless  stone,  she  stood 
Niched  in  the  pure  tradition  of  our  honor 
To  bend  men's  thoughts  in  homage  ;  but  herself, 
Whose  very  life  is  purity,  whose  love, 
Thought,  grace,  flow  from  its  fount,  all  purity,  — 
To  foul  that  stream  of  crystal  from  the  urn 
Of  shadowing  ages  !  —  O,  his  star  ascends 
And  mine  dies  out ;  but  from  my  ashes  leaps 
A  comet  that  shall  cross  his  rising  orb 
With  fiery  potent  in  the  midst  of  heaven  !  — 
Would  we  were  met ! 


28  a  life's  ransom,  [act  in. 

Ban.     Why  ? 

Rev.     Ah,  why,  why  ?  —  He  seeks 
To  blend  with  the  blood  of  Revesdale,  not  to  spill  it,  — 
He'd  tell  me  so,  I  doubt  not ! 

Ban.     Pity  'tis 
That  you  met  ever. 

Rev.     (  Traversing  the  room  impetuously,  and  as  if  speaking  to  him- 
self.) 
Be  that  hour  accursed  ! 
Accursed  the  shows  of  genial  fellowship 
And  truth  that  won  me  to  him  !    Cursed  my  weak 
And  womanish  pity  that,  while  we  were  strangers, 
Sealed  up  my  servants'  lips  that  eagerly 
Sought  to  denounce  his  treason  ! 

Ban.     {Aside.)     Mad  with  pride, 
He  knows  not  what  he  utters  !  —  Treason  !     Nay 

Rev.     It  perilled  his  head,  though.  —  Norris,  Hurst,  and  others 
Of  my  following,  heard  it  from  his  own  confession. 

Ban.     (Musing.)     Norris  and  Hurst !  —  Some  skirmish  then,  — 

(Approaching  Revesdale.)     I  say 
Some  petty  skirmish,  then  ? 

Rev.     (Impatiently.)     Ay,  ay,  his  sword 
Drawn  for  the  rebels  while  they  fled  or  rallied. 
I  know  not  nor  remember.     I  but  felt 
His  danger  and  my  pity. 

Ban.     (Aside.)     Hurst  and  Norris 
May  have  better  memories  !  —  And  he  stung  the  heel 
That  raised,  could  crush  him  ! 

Rev.     Peace ! 

Ban.     His  very  life 
Lying  in  your  grasp  !  —  You  see  ! 

Rev.     Not  I ! 

Ban.     That's  strange. 
He  is  a  traitor ;  you,  with  Hurst  and  Norris, 
Could  prove  him  such. 

(Laying  his  hand  familiarly  on  Revesdale's  arm.) 

Rev.     Off,  sir  !     ( Throws  off  Bancroft.)     I  spear  the  foe 
That  dares  me  with  his  tusk  ;  but  I  don't  chase  him 
To  pitfalls  for  the  butcher  ! 

Ban.     Humph  !  —  The  king 
May  be  less  precise  in  his  hunting. 

Rev.     Ah  !  —  You  would  not 

Ban.     A  fair  journey  to  your  lordship.     (Going  L.  H.) 

Rev.     Bancroft,  stay  ! 

Ban.     Not  now  :  you're  ruffled,  and  you  shook  me  off  , 

As  the  bloodhound's  paws  had  soiled  you  ! 
(Aside.)     Hurst  and  Norris  ! 
Good  even,  my  lord  !  (Exit  Bancroft,  door  2  e.  l.  h.) 

Rev.     (After  a  pause  as  if  beici/derecl.) 
What  have*  I  done  ?     Now  do  I  see  his  drift. 
The  villain  who  would  tempt  me  thus  would  lie 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  29 

Or  color  truth  to  dupe  me.     I'll  pursue 
And  drag  him  back  !     But  wherefore  ?     Could  I  chain 
His  limbs,  his  tongue  were  free.     That  must  be  stilled 
At  any  cost  !     (Moves  to  the  door,  2  e.  l.  h.) 
His  horse's  hoofs  !     They  trample 
Upon  a  living  path  —  my  honor  !     Yes, 
I've  betrayed  Ring  wood  !   ay,  betrayed  —  the  sin 
Of  basest  cowards.     Vain  to  say  my  words 
Flew  from  me  like  the  unconscious  sparks  from  iron 
That's  hammered  when  afire  :  —  'twas  in  the  furnace 
Of  my  own  pride  I  let  this  demon  heat  me, 
And  beat  me  to  his  shaping  !     Fool,  whose  hand, 
Clutching  the  shows  of  nobleness,  —  let  slip 
The  very  thing  !     And  Arthur  !  —  ah,  why  linger  ! 
They  may  be  on  his  track,  his  life  the  game, 
And  not  a  voice  to  warn  ! 

(Seizing  his  hat  and  cloak  from  chair  at  table,  L.  h.) 
I  should  have  wings 
To  save  him  !     Ah,  what  wing  will  overtake 
Those  angels  who  have  fled  me,  —  Peace  and  Honor  ? 

(He  rushes  out  door,  2  e.  l.  h.) 

END    OF    ACT   HI. 


ACT  rv. 

Scene  I.  —  A  spacious  Gothic  entrance  hall  in  Revesdale  Castle,  4  and 
6  G.  A  massive  staircase  leading  to  apartments,  R.  H  3  G.  practical. 
Many  portraits  of  the  Revesdale  family  are  suspended  conspicuously 
on  the  walk.  Cheering  and  dancing  music  heard  without,  u.  e.  r.  h.  ; 
c.  doors  open,  with  large  broad  steps  and  platform  at  doors,  backed  by 
Gothic.     Gothic  table  and  chairs  on  R.  h. 

Enter  Giles,  Richard,  and  Servants,  c.  d.  r.  h. 

Giles,     (r.  h.)     O,  happy  day  !  —  You're  sure  of  this  good  news  ? 

Rich.     Quite  sure  ;  my  mistress  had  it  in  a  letter 
From  some  great  lord  in  London  —  Lord  —  Lord  Norville. 
He's  pleaded  with  the  king,  and  made  him  pay 
His  debts  to  our  master. 

Giles.     Hurrah  !     (7b  the  rest.)     D'ye  hear  ?     Lord  Basil 
Is  rich  again  ;  the  good  old  times  we  knew 
Are  back  once  more  ! 

Servants.     Brave  news  !  brave  news  ! 

Rich.     Lord  Revesdale, 
Being  absent,  knows  not  yet  this  happy  change. 
Would  he  were  here  !  —  He's  to  have  Revesdale  back. 
3  * 


30  A  life's  ransom,  [act  it. 

Our  young  squire  bought  it  in  the  hope  that  some  chance 
Like  this  might  give  it  to  his  friend  again. 

Giles.     He's  a  true  friend, 
Squire  Arthur  !     {Peasants  laugh  and  shout  without,  c.  d.  r.  h.) 

Rich.     See,  here  comes 
A  holiday  group.     Our  lady  has  thrown  ope 
The  park  and  house  for  a  festival  in  honor 
Of  these  blithe  tidings  ;  but  the  night  drives  in 
Our  merry  makers. 

Enter  male  and  female  Peasants,  preceded  by  Alice,  c.  d.  r.  h. 

Alice.     {Advancing  from  the  group  in  great  excitement.')     Now,  son, 
who  was  right  ? 
Said  I  not  Revesdale  still  was  lord  of  Revesdale  ? 
And  now  all  say  it.     Strike  up,  lads  and  girls  !     {Music  —  a  dance.) 
Giles.     I  could  shake  a  leg  myself. 

{Offers  his  arm  to  Alice,  u-ho,  unable  to  control  herself,  joins 
the  dance.) 
Rich.     {On  L.  H.,  near  conclusion  of  the   dance.)     Hold,  hold,  our 
lady! 

(Felicia,  Matthew,  and  Arthur  appear  on  the  staircase,  3 
e.  r.  h.     Peasants,  cVc,  range  on  l.  h.     Alice  and  Giles 

on  R.  H.) 

Join  all !     Long  life  to  Revesdale  and  our  lady  ! 

Chorus.     {By  the  group,  on  l.  h.)     Long  live  Lord  Revesdale  and 
his  noble  sister  ! 

Giles,     (r.  h.)     And  Ins  honor  and  Squire  Arthur  ! 

Group.     Ay,  long  life 
And  joy  to  all ! 

Fel.     Thanks,  thanks,  good  friends  ! 
Let  me  not  check  the  mirth,  for  my  heart  shares  it. 

(Felicia,  Matthew,  and  Arthur  descend  the  staircase,  r.  h., 
and  advance  to  front.  All  bow  and  courtesy,  and  then 
retire  up  and  stand  in  c,  front  of  C.  doors.) 

Matt.     {  To  dancers.)     "Well  done,  well  done  !     Fall  to  again  1 
(  To  Felicia,  c.)     I  feel 
So  light,  so  gay  !     I  never  see  the  young 
Glad,  but  my  old  heart  leaps  up  wild  and  full. 
I  must  dance,  or  sing,  or  kiss  some  one,  I  must ! 
For  fear  of  accidents,  it  shall  be  you.     {Kisses  her  tenderly.) 

Fel.     (r.  h.)     Fie  !     You,  a  veteran  ! 

Matt.     Veteran,  girl !     I'm  young. 
True  youth  is  like  true  wine  —  the  longer  kept, 
The  more  the  spirit  of  the  grape  comes  out.     {Crosses  to  R.  h.) 

Arth.     (l.  h.)     There  wants  but  one  thing  to  complete  our  joy  — 
Basil's  return. 

Matt.     How,  scapegrace !     Do  you  feel 
No  awe  of  the  man  from  whom  you've  stolen  his  sister  ? 

Fel.     No  danger  now.     The  winter  that  congealed 
His  love  dispelled,  'twill  open  all  its  sweets 


SCENE    I.]  A   LIFE'S    RANSOM.  31 

In  Fortune's  sunshine.     'Tis  not  in  his  heart 
To  turn  from  your  dovotion. 

Matt.     What  delays  him  ? 
'Tis  clear  he's  not  with  Norville,  who  despatched 
The  letter  that  restored  your  brother's  rights, 
From  London. 

Fel.     You  speak  anxiously. 

Matt.     No,  no  ; 
There's  nought  to  fear.     And  yet  'tis  true  the  land 
Is  rife  with  plots. 

A rth.     I'm  glad  of  it. 

Matt.     Silence  !  scarce  a  house 
But  holds  a  spy.     Hundreds  are  daily  seized 
In  the  name  of  Order. 

Arth.     Order  —  name  abused  ! 
When  shall  this  harassed  land  know  order  more  ?  — 
The  glad  obedience  freemen  pay  the  laws 
That  keep  them  free.     Cruelty  on  the  bench, 
Fraud  in  the  council,  menace  every  where, 
The  heart  denied  its  commerce  with  the  tongue  — 
Can  there  be  order  ?     Can  unscrupulous  power 
Strike  on  a  nation's  heartstrings  with  a  gantlet, 
And  look  for  music  ? 

Matt.     'Tis  said  all  men's  hopes 
Are  set  on  Holland  ;  but  the  cautious  prince 
Resists  entreaty. 

Arth.     Till  his  time  be  ripe.     {Laughter  from  the  dancers  at  back.) 

Fel.     Leave  these  grave  themes,  and  list  their  happy  laughter. 

{A  pause,  during  which  they  icatch  the  dancers.) 

Rev.     {Without,  c.  d.  l.  h.")     Way,  there  !     My  sister  !  Arthur  ! 

Fel.     Ah,  that  voice  ! 
{The  group  divides  in  consternation  ;  Revesdale  rushes  in,  C.  D.  L.  H.) 
My  brother  !     {Going  to  him.) 

Rev.     (R.  c.)     Touch  me  not ! 
No,  no  embrace.     Hence,  Arthur,  for  your  life  ! 

Arth.     (c.)     Go,  friends ! 

{Exeunt  Peasants,  c.  d.  r.  h.,  with  Alice,  Richard,  and 
Giles.     Doors  in  c.  are  closed.) 
Now,  Basil  ? 

Rev .     {Aside.)     He  is  here ;  in  that 
Bancroft   spoke  truth.  —  {To   Arthur.)     By  what  right   do    you 

share 
One  home  with  her  ? 

Fel.     By  the  best  right  —  a  husband's. 
My  brother 

Rev.     {Aside.)     Married  !     That  explains  the  slander. 
Married !     What  depths  of  horror  at  that  word 
Yawn  in  my  path  !     Fly,  Arthur,  fly  ! 

Fel.     You  speak 
In  terror,  not  in  wrath. 

Rev.     Fly ! 


32  a  life's  ransom,  [act  it. 

Arth.     On  this  night, 
That  hails  you  back  to  Pvevesdale  —  to  your  Revesdale  ! 

Fel.     Ay,  brother,  yours.     Lord  Xorville  from  the  king 
Has  won  your  rights,  and  Arthur  holds  your  lands 
But  to  restore  them. 

Rev.     (Aside.)     This  for  me, 
Beyond  redemption  lost !  —  <  To  Arthur.)     Why  do  you  stand 
With  that  calm  brow,  when  every  moment  falls 
Like  a  sand  from  the  glass  of  fate  i     Fly  for  your  life, 
From  hence,  from  England  ! 

Matt.     fa.  h.)     What  do  you  mean  } 

Rev.     'TLs  known  — 
His  treason,  or  the  deed  which  the  law  calls  so, 
Is  known.     Hie  foes  are  mustering,  on  their  way, 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  stanch  as  remorse  ;  there's  not 
To  '■pare  a  second  ! 

Arth.     If  suspicion's  roused, 
Flight  would  confirm  it.     Those  who  seek  my  life 
May  lie  in  wait  at  the  port.     'Twere  wiser  far 
To  stay  and  front  them. 

Rev.     Madness  !     On  my  knees  (kneeling  to  Arthur) 
I  do  beseech  you 

Fel.     Hear  him,  Arthur  ;  yield, 
My  heart's  beloved  ! 

Arth.     And  leave  thee  ? 

Fel.     Ay,  to  save 
Thyself,  myself,  that's  wrapped  in  thine. 

Arth.     Hear  me  ! 

Fel.     Hear  me  ! 
We'll  fly  together ! 

Matt.     It  must  not  be. 
Arthur  was  right.     Where  are  the  proofs  against  him  ? 
His  deed  is  known  to  none  save  Basil  here 
And  his  trusty  servants.     All's  -'-cure  ;   we'll  face 
crisis! — (To Felicia.)    Courage! 

Rev.     (Aside.)     Then  I  must  confess 
My  baseness  !  —  Arthur  ! 

Arth.     Basil,  'tis  your  zeal 
For  me  provoke-  these  fears.     Ah,  when  most  harsh, 
I  felt  that  you  were  still  my  friend  at  heart, 
My  warm,  true  friend  ! 

Rev.     No,  listen  !     If  a  wretch 

Ah! 

(A    loud  knocking  is  heard  without,  C.  d.  l.  h.    Revf.stjai.e 
stands  as  if  tranced  in  horror.     A  short  interval  of  silence. 
Knocking  repeal"/. ) 
Fel.     II  a 

Rev.     To  the  library  !     It  opens 
On  the  rear  of  the  park  —  the  private  path  !     Escape  ! 

(Drawing  his  sword,  and  rushing  to  the  door,  C.) 


bcexe  i.]  A  lite*s  ransom.  33 

I'll  guard  the  door.     More  strength  than's  packed  in  iron 
Stiffens  this  arm  !     Hence  !  there's  yet  time. 

(Louder  knocking  and  clamor  without,  c.  r>.  L.  H.) 

Arth.     (Seizing  Eevesdale's  arm.)     Itesist  not  ! 
Your  life  is  perilled  now. 

Rev,     What  bliss  it'  that 
Could  ransom  thine  !     i  Struggling  with  Arthur.") 

Arth,     Becalm:   I  must  remain. 

(The  doors  are  burst  open  in  c,  and  Bancroft  enters,  followed 
by  tico  officers  of  the  militia.) 

Ban.     (l.  11.)     Disarm  that  madman  ! 

(Officers  disarm  Revesdale,  in  c.) 

Rev.     (c.)     Villain  ! 

Ban.     (^l.  h.)     Arthur  Ring-wood, 
I  arrest  you  for  high  treason  ! 

Matt.     (^k.  h.)     On  whose  charge  ? 

Ban.     (Aside  to  officers.)     See  those  men,  Hurst  and  Xorris,  kept, 
apart, 
Then  stand  in  call  ;   quick  !  ( Exeunt  two  officers,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Arth.     (u.  v.)     Still  athirst  for  blood  ! 

Ban.     Is  it  BO  strange  in  a  bloodhound  ?     That's  the  name 
You  gave  me,  and,  my  lord,  the  name  that  crowds 
Chorus  with  yells.     When  1  was  so  baptized, 
You  were  my  sponsors.     Giving  me  the  name. 
Should  I  not  have  the  nature  :     Know,  your  crime, 
If  proved,  is  death. 

Ma/t.      Say,  who  accuses  him? 
None  save  you  have  sul>orned  them.     Ah,  beware ! 
My  boy  is  loved  of  the  peasants. 

Ban,     No  mob  escort 
Shall  see  your  son  to  prison ;  a  detachment 
Of  the  king's  force  is  sent  for  in  Ins  honor. 

Matt.     I  ask  for  his  accuser. 

Ban.     Ask  my  lord  .' 

Arth.     Insolent  scoifer  ! 

Fel.     (Crossing  to   Kkyi.sdale,  and  speaking  to  him  aside.)     Do 
not  heed  him,  Basil. 
Your  anguish  helps  suspicion.     It  was  night 
When  the  fray  chanced  ;  none  recognized  my  husband, 
Or  he  had  been  seized  before. 

Bev.     "lis  known  ! 

Fel.     To  none 
But  Hurst  and  Xorris,  our  old  faithful  followers ; 
They  would  not  act  a  baseness  which  no  tongue 
Could  curse  to  the  full. 

Bev.     There  was  a  third  —  a  third 
Who  knew  ! 

Fel.      Who  t     H  I  have  betrayed 
My  noble  Arthur,  may  that  solemn  justice. 
Which,  unlike  man's,  looks  to  the  heart  as  well 
As  to  the  act,  judge  him  ! 


34  A  life's  ransom.  [act  rv. 

Rev.    It  does,  it  does  ! 

Fel.     His  name  ?     Why  droop  your  head  ?     He  cannot  be 
Your  friend.     You  shudder  !     Ah,  what  serpent  thoughts 
Hiss  through  my  brain  !     Your  feud  with  Arthur,  your 
Close  intercourse  with  Bancroft,  now  that  look  ! 
No,  no  —  I  loathe  my  mind  for  the  doubt ;  distraction, 
Not  reason,  prompts  !     Speak,  brother,  speak  in  mercy  ! 
This  traitor's  name  ? 

Rev.     Behold  him  ! 

{During   the  previous    dialogue,  Matthew,   Arthur}    and 
Bancroft  have  approached  them.} 

Arth.     Whom  ? 

Ban.     A  witness  to  your  guilt.     Here,  sirs  ! 

(He  goes  up  the  stage  and  calls  in  officers,  C.  D.  L.  H.) 

Matt.     My  son  ! 
(  To  Felicia,  who  turns  to  Arthur.)     Away  ! 
Thou  hast  no  part  in  him ;  thou  art  his  sister ! 

Fel.     No ! 

Arth.     Father ! 

Matt.     Forgive  me,  girl !     (Extends  his  hand  to  her.) 

Arth.     Basil,  what  brought  thee 
To  this  abasement  ? 

Rev.     (In  a  deep  ichisper.)     Why,  my  pride,  that  listened 
Unto  that  demon  ! 

Fel.     (  To  Arthur.)     Speak  no  more ;  let's  meet 
Our  fate  in  silence. 

Arth.     Wife,  his  wretchedness 
Doth  outweigh  ours.     Look  on  him  and  have  pity. 

Matt.     Pity  !  he  had  none. 

Arth.     (To  Revesdale.)     Say,  how  wast  thou  wrought 
To  this  extreme  ? 

Rev.     I  deemed  by  you  our  house 
Had  suffered  shame.  (Exit  two  officers,  c.  r>.  L.  H.) 

Fel.     (With  bitter  laughter.)     Our  house  ! 
(Arthur  signs  to  her  to  be  silent.)     If  any  speak, 
I  must.     Our  house  !     Thy  house  !     Where  ranks  thy  name 
In  its  roll  of  heroes  ?     (Pointing  to  portraits.) 

See,  their  pictured  forms 
Start  into  life  and  ask  thee  !     Art  thou  heir 
Of  him  whose  chivalry  spared  gallant  foes  ?  — 
Thou  didst  not  spare  thy  friend  !     Of  him  whose  counsels 
Quelled  bloody  strife  'twixt  kingdoms  ?     Thou  hast  stained 
With  blood  thy  hearth  !     Of  him  whose  tuneful  lips 
Sang  noble  deeds  ?     How  will  this  deed  of  thine 
Tell  with  the  minstrels  ?     Rise,  ye  shapes  august, 
And  with  your  lips  white  more  with  scorn  than  death, 
Renounce  him  for  your  son  ! 

Ban.     Come,  the  king's  business  must  be  cared  for  now. 
(  To  Arthur.)     Those  stand  without,  who,  till  the  troops  arrive, 
Will  be  your  guard  in  the  castle. 
Arth.     I  am  ready. 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE'S    HANSOM.  35 

Fel.     But  not  alone.     There's  yet  one  comfort,  love  — 
That  I  can  knit  my  fate  so  close  with  thine, 
No  hand  shall  rend  them.     We  await  our  doom. 
Ay,  ours  !     If  he  be  guilty,  I  partake 
His  glorious  crime  ! 
Arth.     Felicia ! 
Fel.     I  concealed  him 
"Within  these  walls  to  save  his  life.     I  failed. 
I  triumph  now,  for  I  shall  share  his  death  ! 

(Casts  herself  on  Arthur's  neck.) 
Arth.     What  hast  thou  said  ? 
Ban.     I  would  it  were  unspoken. 
I  meant  not  ill  to  her  ;  but  for  this  deed 
The  law  exacts  its  due. 

(Goes  tip  and  waves   hand.      Officers  enter,  C.  D.  L.  H.,  and 
stand  on  steps.     At  a  sign  from  officers,  Arthur  and  Fe- 
licia,  followed  by  Matthew,  go  up  to  the  door  in  c,  which 
is  raised  on  a  broad  flight  of  stairs.) 
Conduct  them  hence. 

Rev.     (As  if  awaking  from  stupor.)     No,  wretch  !  I'll  save  them. 

—  save  ■ ■ 

(Felicia,  on  steps,  c.  d.,  turns  and  looks  earnestly  at  Reves- 
dale,  on  R.  h.  All  go  out,  c.  d.  l.  h.,  but  Revesdale, 
who  stands  a  while  dumb  and  motionless  ;  then,  with  a  cry, 
falls  prostrate.) 

Quick  Drop. 

end  of  act  rv. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  —  Entrance  Hall  in  Revesdale  Castle,  as  in  Fourth  Act. 
Revesdale  is  seated  in  an  attitude  of  mental  prostration,  on  r.  h. 
Richard  leans  over  him.  Bancroft  stands  apart,  watching  them 
earnestly,  on  L.  H. 

Ban.     (  To  Richard.)     He'll  not  answer  ? 

Rich.     You've  done  your  work  too  well ;  for  these  two  hours 
Has  he  sat  thus,  more  kin  to  death  than  life. 

Ban.     (Aside.)     Yet  he  must  speak ;  for  there  be  secrets  still 
I  would  worm  from  him.     Bid  the  guard  conduct 
His  sister  here  ;  the  sight  of  her  may  rouse  him. 

Rich.     Ay,  to  new  torture. 

Ban.     Better  that  than  humor 
A  fatal  lethargy.     Go  !  (Exit  Richard,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Our  state  secretary 


36  A  life's  ransom.  [act  t. 

Writes  in  reproach,  {reading  from  a  letter?) 

"  That  I  have  missed  my  clew 
To  traitors  here,  who  signed  the  requisition 
To  the  Prince  of  Orange."     Now,  of  these,  'tis  like 
One  is  young  Ringwood.     His  known  lenity 
To  Monmouth's  faction,  and  the  treasonous  acts 
By  him  committed,  make  suspicion  strong. 
Could  I  discover  this,  and  nis  confederates 
Deliver  up  to  justice,  wealth  and  honors 
Beyond  all  hope  were  miner   By  threats  or  wiles, 
I'll  wring  the  truth  from  Revesdale. 

Enter  Felicia,  leith  tioo  officers,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

So  !     Retire.     {Officers  retire  to  the  door  in  centre.} 
A  torpor  on  your  brother  hangs,  pernicious 
To  health  and  life.     Your  voice,  perchance,  may  wake 
His  slumbering  sense. 

Fel.     {Gazing  on  Revesdale.)     So  prostrate  !     O,  my  brother, 
Now  that  my  heart  is  calmer,  it  consents 
To  my  dear  husband's  pleading.     Thy  remorse 
Tells  of  a  soul  not  base,  but  sorely  tempted. 
Turn  thy  face  hither ;  'tis  thy  sister,  Basil,  entreats  thee  ! 

Rev.     { On  R.  H.      Vacantly. )     Who  ? 

Fel.     Felicia. 

Rev.     Let  no  blessed  shape 
Visit  this  gulf,  nor  any  save  the  one 
I  wait  for ! 

Fel.     (c.)     Whom  expect  you  ? 

Rev.     Go  !  you're  fair 
And  pure ;  he'll  not  consort  with  such,  the  fiend 
Who  plunged  me  here. 

Ban.     (l.  h.     Approaching  xcith  coarse  laughter.)     He  raves  ! 

Rev.     {Crossing  c,   and  springing   upon   him.)     Ah,  ah !    thou'rt 
come ; 
I  have  thee  in  my  gripe  ! 

Ban.     Let  go  your  hold  ! 
Madman,  be  warned  !  release  me  !     Off,  I  say  ! 
I'll  crush  thee  to  the  earth  ! 

Rev.     Fool !     Dost  thou  think 
My  arms  infold  thee  merely  ?     'Tis  my  soul 
That  grasps  its  tempter  !     Mighty  with  despair, 
It  twines  around  thee,  drags  thee  down,  down,  down 
To  its  perdition  ! 

Ban.     Off !    I  choke  !     What  right 
Have  you  for  this  ?     I  sought  my  enemy's  life, 
But  you 

Rev.     {Pausing.)     Ay  —  well ! 

Ban.     Betrayed  your  friend  ! 

Rev.     (c.      Releasing  him  and  staggering  back.)     Thou'rt  right. 
Thou  hast  crushed  me  to  the  earth  ! 


SCENE   I.]  A   LIFE'S   RANSOM.  37 

Fel.     (r.  h.)     Basil !     (Bancroft  goes  up  c.) 

Rev.     I  look 
On  thee,  yet  live  ! 

Fel.     You  never  dreamed 
Of  these  sad  issues.     'Twas  a  moment's  frenzy 
Surprised  and  overcame  you. 

Rev.     Is't  to  a  wretch 
Like  me,  your  murderer  ! 

Fel.     Listen!     If  I'm  wronged, 
I  have  a  claim  on  thee.     O,  let  my  words 
Fall  in  thy  soul  like  holy  seed,  which  time 
Shall  turn  to  fruitful  duty.    Live  to  prove 
He  who  repents  can  expiate  ;  live  to  serve 
Thy  kind,  that  thou  mayst  say,  when  grateful  hearts 
Bless  thee,  I  had  a  sister  once,  whose  spirit 
Still  lives  in  mine.     She  prayed  for  me,  she  blessed  me  ; 
With  her  last  breath  she  won  me  from  despair, 
And  left  me  what  I  am  ! 

(Revesdale  interrupts  her  with  a  cry  of  anguish.) 

Ban.     (Looking  off.)     Ah,  who  comes  ? 

Enter  Officer,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Well,  sir, 
The  troops  ? 

Off,.     Are  on  their  way.     I  met  them  with  a  force 
More  fit  to  take  a  city  than  a  prisoner. 

Ban.     A  wise  precaution. 

Off.     On  their  heels  the  crowrd 
Followed  with  shouts. 

Ban.     And  curses,  doubtless. 

Off.     That 
I  know  not ;  I  but  bore  your  summons  to  their  captain. 
He  laughed.     "  Your  errand's  stale  ;  we  were  already 
Bent  towards  Revesdale." 

Ban.     (Surprised.)     So ! 

Off.     I  set  spurs  to  horse, 
And  thus  outrode  them. 

(At  a  sign  of  dismissal  from  Bancroft,  Officer  exit,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Ban.     Lady,  you've  scant  time 
For  preparation. 

Fel.     Basil,  one  embrace ! 

Rev.     No,  no  !     (Rushing  up  to  Bancroft.) 

Bancroft,  as  yet  the  law  knows  not 
Of  their  offence ;  have  pity  —  save  her  —  save 
Her  husband  ! 

Ban.     What,  so  low  ? 

Rev.     (Sinking  on  his  knees.)     Ay,  in  the  dust. 
Where  should  guilt  be  ?     So  low  !     O,  thou  mightst  tower 
Above  me  like  a  god  !     This  prostrate  thing 
That's  at  thy  knees,  helpless,  disgraced,  and  hopeless, 
4 


38  a  life's  ransom.  [act  v. 

A  word  from  thee  can  fire  with  hope,  strength,  honor. 
The  worm  crawls  ;  thou  canst  bid  it  rise,  a  man  ! 

Ban.     There's  but  one  chance.     Let  Ringwood  own  his  share 
In  this  petition  (showing  parchment)  to  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
And  trust  to  the  king's  mercy. 

Rev.     {Rising.)     What  petition  ? 

Ban.     That  signed  by  tivitors,  urging  William's  presence, 
Implying,  if  not  offering,  support. 

Rev.     {Aside.)     The  same  I  signed  that  day  Felicia's  prayers 
Won  me  from  the  conspiracy. —  He  never 
Set  hand  to  that. 

Ban.     Then  he  can  give  no  clew 
To  the  plot.     I  cannot  save  them.     Mark  me  ;  'tis  of  moment 
Most  vital  some  accomplice  in  that  act 
Should  be  discovered. 

Rev.     {Aside.)     And  my  signature 
To  the  requisition  makes  me  such  accomplice  ! 

Ban.     Time  hurries.     Officers ! 

Rev.     Go,  sister.     Bancroft, 
Remain  ! 

Fel.     One  last  embrace. 

Rev.     Not  now  —  I  dare  not ;  yet 
A  time  may  come.     Go  —  we  shall  meet  once  more  — 
Once  more,  my  sister. 

{Exit  Felicia,  c.  d.  l.  h.,  guarded  by  two  officers.) 
Now ;  you  said  detection 
Of  one  who  signed  that  deed  was  vital.     Save 
My  sister  and  her  husband,  and  I  place 
An  accomplice  in  your  power. 

Ban.     {Aside.)     Ah  !  he  bids  high, 
If  I  could  trust  him  ;  yet  to  lose  my  vengeance  ! 
Stay  —  I  might  compass  both.     Were  Ringwood  free, 
The  troops  who  are  at  hand  might  overtake  him. 

Rev.     Your  answer  !     The  king's  force  is  nigh. 

Ban.     What  ground 
Have  I  to  trust  you  ? 

Rev.     This  :  I  have  confessed 
I  know  the  traitor.     If  I  break  my  word, 
The  peril  lights  on  me. 

Ban.     It  does  already. 

Rev.     I  can  be  silent. 

Ban.     {Aside.)     True  ;  the  prey  meanwhile 
May  cheat  me  and  escape.  —  Will  this  accomplice 
Name  his  confederates  ? 

Rev.     No. 

Ban.     {Aside.)     A  foolish  question  ! 
Once  seized,  if  he  prove  obstinate,  the  rack 
Will  force  avowal.  —  And  within  what  time 
Will  you  reveal  the  culprit  ? 

Rev.     When  my  sister 
And  Ringwood  are  safe  on  shipboard. 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  39 

Ban.     (Aside.)     I'll  so  plan 
That  ere  they  well  spread  sail  they  are  pursued. 
Should  they  escape,  the  stake  will  justify 
My  venture  to  the  king.  —  I  take  your  terms. 

Reo.     Quick,  then  —  release  them  ! 

Ban.     Should  you  fail,  be  sure 
Your  life 

Rev.     Will  answer  it. 

Ban.     I  go  ;  we  meet 
Straight  in  the  court  yard  ;  but  your  pledge  —  remember  ! 

(Exit  Bancroft,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Rev.     He  yields  ;  they  may  be  rescued  !     They  may  live 
In  joy,  with  children  round  them,  and  my  life, 
My  worthless  life,  may  save  them.     Well  said,  sister  — 
He  who  repents  can  expiate !  (Exit,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 


Scene  H.  —  Court  Yard  of  the  Castle,  with  very  large  centre  gates  in 
flat  practical,  2  G.  Set  Castle  door,  R.  h.  2  e.  Set  Castle  door, 
2  E.  L.  H. 

Enter  Bancroft  and  Officer,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Ban.     Mount  you  the  roof  of  the  castle  ;  it  commands 
The  road  for  miles.     The  instant  you  catch  sight 
Of  the  troops,  return  ;  I'll  speed  you  with  instructions 
To  meet  their  leader.  (Officer  bows  and  exit,  door  2  e.  l.  h.) 

So,  'tis  well  contrived. 

Enter  Revesdale  and  Richard,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Rev.     She  lies  in  the  offing  ? 

Rich.     Ay,  sir. 

Rev.     Bound,  you  say, 
To  Holland  ?     Haste,  good  Richard  ;  see  a  boat 
Straight  manned  by  the  beach,  and  thither  summon  friends 
From  the  peasants  and  our  people. 

Rich.     Think  it  done.  (Exit  Richard,  door  2  e.  l.  h.) 

Rev.     (To  Bancroft.)     The  order  for  release 

Ban.     Is  given  ;  even  now 
Your  sister  and  her  husband  quit  the  door. 

Rev.     They  pass  this  way  ! 

Ban.     I've  kept  my  share  of  the  compact ; 
Look  to  your  own  ! 

Rev.     (Aside.)     'Twill  be  a  last  farewell, 
And  then  these  arms  will  no  more  fold  a  sister 
So  noble,  so  forgiving,  nor  this  hand 
Clasp  his  whom  I  so  wronged,  so  basely  wronged, 
And  now  would  ransom  !     May  they  never  know 
That  ransom's  price  ! 


40  a  life's  raxsom.  [act  t. 

Enter  Felicia  and  Arthur,  door  2  e.  r.  h.,  preceded  by  four  officers' 
followed  by  Alice,  Giles,  and  a  group  of  domestics,  who  press 
around  them. 

Fel.     Farewell,  till  happier  times  !     {Embracing  Alice.) 
O,  they  will  come  !     Fare  veil,  kind  friends. 

(Felicia  and  Arthur,  with  officers,  advance  to  centred) 

Fel.     (c.)     My  brother ! 
Heaven  has  had  mercy,  and  your  prayers  prevailed. 

Rev.     They  did. 

Arth.     (r.  h.     Glancing  at  Bancroft,   up    c.)     And    could    his 
heart  be  touched  with  pity  ? 
'Tis  strange ! 

Rev.     (l.  h.)     Arthur  !      {Crosses  to  C.) 

Arth.     {Giving  his  hand.)     Basil,  believe  no  thought 
Of  harshness  lives  between  us. 

Rev.     I  believe  it. 
My  generous  friend,  farewell !    . 

Fel.     Now  to  thine  arms  ! 

Rev.     Yes  ;  now  I  think  I  dare  embrace  thee.     Bless, 
O,  bless  and  pardon  me  !     (  They  embrace.) 

Fel.     (l.  h.)     From  my  heart's  depths. 
But  Ave  shall  meet  again  ;  you'll  join  us  scon 
In  the  new  land  we  seek  ?     Promise  ! 

Rev.     (c.      Very  tenderly.)     How  like  you  are 
To  our  lost  mother,  sweet !     That's  the  same  look 
Of  anxious  love  she  wore  when  we  two  children 
Bode  from  the  hall,  and  I,  rash  brother,  urged 
Your  palfrey  to  his  speed,  or  from  the  bough 
Broke  off  the  blossoming  chestnut  for  your  hat. 

Fel.     Ah,  those  old  days,  they'll  come  again  ;  once  more 
We'll  be  boy  and  girl  together.     {Anxiously.)     Dear,  we  part 
But  for  a  time. 

Rev.     But  for  a  time,  Felicia  — 
But  for  a  time. 

Arth.     (r.  h.)     Nay,  there's  some  mystery. 

{Pointing  to  Bancroft.) 
Basil,  you  stand  not  in  his  power  ? 

Rev.     {Affecting  gayety.)     His  power  ! 
His  power  !     You  stand  so,  lingering  here  ;  no  safety 
Till  you  embark  !     Think  of  your  father,  Arthur ; 
He  waits  you  on  the  beach.     Farewell,  farewell  — 
No  word  but  that ! 

Arth.    Basil ! 

Fel.     My  brother  !     {Returning  and  embracing  him.) 

Rev.     Go  ! 

{He  gently  forces    them  off,  door  2  e.  l.  h.,  officers  following. 
Exeunt  Alice,  Giles,  and  domestics,  door  2  e.  r.  h.) 

Ban.     {Aside.)     The  troops  not  yet  in  sight ! 

Rev.     {Watching Felicia  and  Arthur  through  the  door  2  e.  l.h.) 


8CENE    II.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  41 

The  gate  stands  open  ; 

The  beach  is  lined  with  friends ;  they  pass  the  walls  ; 

The  living  lane  divides  ;  and  yet  one  group 

Conceals  the  boat.     Ah,  now  'tis  clear  ;  the  pilot 

Stands  at  the  helm  ;  they  pause  !     'Tis  to  embrace 

Their  lather.     Now  her  foot  is  on  the  plank, 

And  Arthur  follows  her.     The  rowers  bend  ; 

It  moves  !  it  moves  to  the  wide  seas ;  they're  saved  ! 

Thank  God  !  thank  God  !      (Kneeling .) 

Ban.     (Aside.)     May  storm  and  hidden  shoal 
"Wreak  my  full  hate  on  Ringwood  !  — 
(Suddenly,  to  Revesdale.)     Now  your  pledge  ! 
That  traitor  who  subscribed  the  requisition  — 
His  name  ?     Where  lurks  he  ? 

Rev.     Lurks  !     Why  should  he  lurk  ? 
The  caitiff  in  his  mesh  lurks  spider- like, 
Who,  from  his  very  filament  of  life, 
Spins  death  for  others ;  cowards  lurk,  who  gag 
Men's  reason  by  their  passions,  and  then  strike 
A  soul  in  fetters  ;  bravos  lurk,  sometimes 
Beneath  a  soldier's  cloak,  and,  spite  of  all, 
The  slouch  betrays  them.     Lurk  !  lurk  thou  !     Thy  victim 
Stands  in  broad  day  and  waits  thee. 

Ban.     (a.  h.)     Who? 

Rev.     (l.  h.)     Myself. 

Ban.     You  signed  that  deed  ? 

Rev.     Ay. 

Ban.     And  you  know  your  doom  ? 

Rev.     'Tis  death. 

Ban.     I  see.     You  think  to  'scape 
By  naming  your  confederates.     Well,  proclaim  them. 

Rev.     Never !     They're  fled ;  thou   hast   lost   the    scent.     ( With 
scornful  laughter.) 

Ban.     (Enraged  and  half  drawing.)     Beware! 

Rev.     (Touching  the  sword  hilt.)     It  is  a   sword;  I  thought  to 
have  seen  a  knife. 

Ban.     Mark,  then; 
'Tis  not  your  death  alone  impends, 
But,  ere  death,  torture. 

Rev.     Torture  !     Man,  I've  lain 
Upon  the  rack  —  remorse ;  can  thine  affright  me  ?     (Crosses  R.  h.) 


Reenter  Officer,  door  2  e.  r.  h. 

Ban.     Well,  laggard  ? 

Offi.     Sir,  the  troops 

Ban.     A  curse  reward  their  dallying  ! 

Offi.     Are  at  hand. 
We  had  descried  them 
Long  since  but  for  the  mist. 
4* 


42  a  life's  ransom.  [act  v. 

Ban.     To  your  horse,  and  hide 
Your  rowels  in  his  flank  !     Haste,  then ! 

OJjfi.     They  come, 
Battalion  on  battalion,  and  the  shout 
Of  following  crowds  roars  like  a  distant  sea.     {Exit,  door,  2  e.  I»  h.) 

Ban.     That's  strange  !  such  numbers  !     {Goes  to  door,  2  e.  l.  h.) 
Ah,  the  boat  returns, 

And  with  its  freight  —  Ringwood,  his  wife !  they  land, 
And  bend  this  way.     Unlooked-for  chance  !  fools,  fools  ! 
They're  in  my  power  at  last ;  for  now  the  troops 
Will  bar  escape  ! 

Rev.  O,  fatal  sight !     Back,  back! 

Ban.     They're  welcome.     Guards ! 

Enter  Felicia,  Arthur,  and  Matthew,  door,  2  e.  l.  h.     Enter 
Officers,  door  2  e.  r.  h.) 

The  tables  turn,  my  lord. 

Their  lives  and  yours  are  at  my  mercy. 

Arth.     No  ! 

Fel.     Hold,  husband  !     What !  his  life  ? 

Ban.     (In  c.)     He  has  confessed 
To  a  treasonous  plot,  and  thereby  bought  your  rescue, 
But  screens  his  guilty  partners. 
(  To  Revesdale,  on  R.  h.)     Hark  !  the  troops. 

( Military  music  withotd,  u.  e.  l.  h.) 
Not  theirs  slow  justice.     In  one  hour  they  try, 
Pronounce,  despatch !     Look  on  that  pair. 
(Points  to  Felicia  and  Arthur,  on  l.  h.)     The  sun 
Climbs,  they  bask  in  his  light,  are  here.     An  hour 
He  will  be  in  his  zenith ;  but  where  they  ? 
'Tis  you  must  answer.     Speak  !     Your  comrades'  names, 
Or  friend  and  sister  perish  ! 

(He  beckons  to  guards,   who   advance   towards   Felicia  and 
Arthur  ;  they  halt  at  a  signal  from  Bancroft,  on  l.  c.) 

Rev.     Wretch  !  to  bribe 
The  conscience  through  the  heart. 
(In  great  agony.)     Felicia  !  Arthur  ! 
What !  must  a  brother  doom  them,  or  pollute 
Their  very  lives  by  blood  ?     Off,  tempter,  off ! 
No  ;  I'll  not  buy  their  pure  lives  with  dishonor. 
Earth  has  a  Judge  ;  I  trust  in  Him  to  save  them.     (  Crosses  to  c.) 

Fel.     (Embiacing  him.)     O,  twice  redeemed,  my  brother  ! 

Matt.     (  To  Revesdale.)     My  son  ! 

Ban.     (r.  h.     To  officers.)     Away  with  them  ! 

Fel.     They  will  not  stir. 

Ban.     How  ? 

Fel.     (Clinging  to  Revesdale.)     Hear  !     As  through  the  mist  we 
ploughed  the  main, 
A  skiff  crossed  ours.     Its  pilot  stayed  our  course, 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE'S    RANSOM.  43 

Inquired  our  name  and  errand.     These  being  told, 

"  Return,"  he  cried  ;  "  no  need  to  quit  your  shores  ; 

Friends  follow  you  — friends  able  to  protect 

Or  to  avenge."     Wouldst  meet  those  friends  ? 

{Cheering  without,  at  back.)     Hark  !  hark  ! 

The  cheers  of  thousands  greet  them.     {Discharge  of  artillery  at  back.) 

Does  that  sound 
Shake  thee  ?     'Tis  but  a  whisper  to  the  shout 
A  nation's  heart  would  utter  —  a.  free  nation's  ! 

Enter  Richard,  Giles,  and  Alice,  door  2  e.  e.  h.    Retainers  and 
Peasants  rush  in,  2  e.  l.  h.,  shouting. 

Fling  wide  the  gates  !     See  William  of  Nassau, 
The  Prince  of  Orange  !     {March  behind.) 

{  The  large  gates  are  thrown  open,  and  discover  in  the  distance  the 
fleet  of  William  of  Orange  painted  on  flat  7  g.  The  Prince 
disembarking,  the  coast  lined  u>ith  troops  and  others.  Three 
rows,  set  waters  across  from  4  g.  to  7  G.,  level  with  stage. 
Low  wall  piece  across  in  front  of  waters,  and  open  in 
centre,  with  steps  beneath  to  ascend,  for  procession  to  come 
tip.  Soldiers  and  Banner  men  on  stage,  3  G.,  R.  and  l.  c, 
grouped,  and  dignitaries,  with  staffs  of  office  discovered  ; 
officers  are  seen  ascending.  Renewed  discharge  of  artillery. 
Felicia  throws  herself  into  Arthur's  arms.) 

Ban.     (r.  h.)     But  the  troops 

Matt.     Go  over  to  the  prince.     {Crosses  c.) 
( To  four  soldiers,  who  have  entered,  2  e.  r.  h.)     Secure  this  man. 
Wretches,  by  him  suborned,  as  I  shall  prove, 
Have  brought  the  innocent  to  timeless  death. 

{Soldiers  seize  Bancroft.) 

Matt.     Off  with  him  ! 

{Exeunt  two  soldiers  with  Bancroft,  door  2  e.  r.  h.) 

Arth.     How  fares  Basil  ? 

Rev.     O,  as  one 
Who,  'scaped  from  shipwreck,  wakes,  half  deeming  still 
The  billows  round  him,  but  beholds  the  earth 
And  the  soft  sky. 

Matt.     You  wake  in  a  new  reign. 

Fel.     And,  brother,  with  new  hopes. 

Rev.     To  a  new  life  ! 

(Felicia  points  to  fleet  at  back.  Reneiced  shouts  and  artil- 
lery. They  turn  to  meet  the  prince,  ivho  is  seen  in  centre, 
surrounded  by  his  suite.     Flourish  and  shouts.) 


44  A  life's  ransom.  [act  v. 

Soldiers  and  Banners,  Soldiers  and  Banners, 

grouped.  grouped. 

. Gates  open.  . , 


Officers.  pastes  of  Ora.vG£.  Officers. 


s^N       ■&****  ***** 

GRAND   TABLEAU. 
CURTAIN. 


SPENCER'S   BOSTON   THEATRE No.  CLXI. 


A   HARD    STRUGGLE. 

§1  gametic  grama, 

IN    ONE     ACT. 

WRITTTJf  BT 

TVESTLAND    MARSTON,    Esq., 

Author  of  Patrician's  Daughter  —  Anne  Blake —  Strathmore —  Philip  of  France  and 

Marie  de  Meranie —  Borough  Politics  —  Heart  of  the    World  — 

A  Life's  Ransom  —  Gerald,  a  Dramatic  Poem,  etc. 


ORIGINAL  CASTS,   COSTUMES.    AND   TIIE   WHOLE  OF  TILE   STAGE 

BUSINESS,   CORRECTLY    MARKED   AND   ARRANGED,  BY 

MR.  J.  B.  WRIGHT,    ASSISTANT   MANAGER 

OF  THE   BOSTON    THEATRE. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM     V.     SPENCER, 

liS  Washington  St.  (cob.  of  Water.) 


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(2) 


A    HARD    STRUGGLE. 


Scene  I.  —  Drawing  Room  of  the  Grange,  3  and  6  g.  Mr.  Trevor's 
house  ;  a  laivn  andpatt  of  the  grounds  are  seen  through  the  window, 
which  opens  upon  a  co/tsercatory  at  back  of  stage  ;  set  doors,  R.  and 
L.  2  e. 

Mr.  Trevor,  reading  a  newspaper  aloud,  and  pronouncing  many  of  the 
words  incorrectly,  and  with  hesitation. 

Mr.  Trevor.  "In  brief,  the  magnificence  of  the  late  flower  show 
at  Upingham  was  without  par-are-lel,  (parallel,)  whether  we  regard 
the  exquisite  specimens  of  hor-ti-cul-tu-ial  science  themselves,  or  the 
unrivalled  display  of  fashion  and  a-m-tocrasy  congregated  from  all 
quarters  of  the  — vi-nis-i-ty  (vicinity.")  Ah,  that's  something  like 
style;  that's  real  elegant  language,  just  to  my  taste!  "Hor-ti-cul- 
tu-ral "  is  a  capital  word  ;  so  is  "  par-are-lel ;  "  so  is  "vi-nis-i-ty." 
I  must  make  a  note  of  'em.  (He  takes  out  tablets  ;  shouts  of  laughter 
at-p  heard,  v.  E.  R.  H.,  from  the  grounds;  he  looks  through  window.) 
What's  that  ?  Reuben'and  Amy  again  !  Why,  I  declare  he's  letting 
her  chase  him  up  and  down  just  as  if  he  was  a  child  like  herself ! 
He's  as  much  a  boy  as  when  his  poor  father  died  and  left  him  to  my 
care. 

Reuben  bursts  in  through  the  windoio,  c. ;  Amy  catches  him. 

Amy.  (Laughing.')  Caught  !  caught !  I'm  out  of  breath,  Reu- 
ben, I'm  out  of  breath !     My  side  aches  so  ! 

Reuben.     Yes,  lassie,  I  think  that  will  do  for  one  turn. 

Amy.  Grandpapa,  it  wasn't  fair  ;  he  let  himself  be  caught  just  to 
plea«e  me. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Reuben,  I'm  amazed !  If  any  of  the  gentry  in  the 
vi-vis-i-ty  had  seen  you  ! 

Reuben.  What  then  ?  They  would  have  seen  me  making  fun  for 
a  dear  little  girl  who  wanted  a  playmate. 

Mr.  Trevor.  My  good  fellow,  this  will  never  do.  I  know  you've 
maiy  good  points.  You've  helped  me  to  manage  the  farm  excel- 
lently. There's  not  an  acre  but  what's  made  the  most  of,  not  a  shed 
on  the  estate  out  of  repair.  But  really  you  must  give  up  the  e  strange 
concentric  habits.  Remember  that  my  daughter  Lilian,  whom  I  sent 
to  Madeira  for  her  health,  comes  back  to  us  next  month. 

Reuben.     Ay,  and  well,  thank  God  ! 

Mr.  Trevor.     That  you're  engaged  to  her.     Consider  that  though 

(3) 


4  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  [ACT    I. 

I  was  at  first  a  small  farmer,  we're  now  rising  people,  entitled  to 
move  in  a  super-incumbent  sphere.  You  must  get  rid  of  your  shy- 
ness, go  into  company,  learn  how  to  converge,  sir.  Look  at  me  ! 
I  never  meet  with  a  gentlemanly  word  in  a  newspaper  or  pamphlet, 
but  I  instantly  make  a  note  of  it,  and  add  it  to  my  concatenation. 

Reuben.  (Cheerfully.)  Talk's  not  in  my  line,  sir;  I'm  not  glib  at 
words. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Don't  say  glib,  there's  a  dear  boy.  You  should  fol- 
low gentlemanly  sports  —  carry  your  rod  and  line,  for  instance. 

Reuben.  What !  to  cheat  silly  fishes  out  of  their  lives  with  mock 
flies? 

Mr.  Trevor.     Pooh  !     Shoot,  then  ! 

Reuben.  No ;  powder  and  shot  have  so  much  the  best  of  a  bird, 
there's  no  fair  play  in  that. 

Mr.  Trevor.     Well,  you  can  hunt. 

Reuben.  Hunt !  What,  when  poor  Renard  hasn't  a  chance ; 
for  if  he  gets  to  cover  one  time,  he's  sure  to  be  killed  the  next. 
Hunt!  Why,  if  it  was  a  tiger  in  a  jungle,  and  I  saw  death  in  his 
glaring  eyes;  or  if  it  was  to  stalk  down  a  desert  lion —  I  here,  he 
there,  a  strong  man  against  a  strong  beast,  a  life  against  a  life  — 
why,  perhaps  I  might  take  to  it !  But  to  scour  after  a  helpless  brute, 
doomed  before  he  starts  —  no,  thank  you,  sir  ;  there's  no  sport  for  me 
where  there's  no  danger  !  (Amy  steals  up  to  Reuben,  and  places  her 
hand  in  his.) 

Mr.  Trevor.  Well,  you  can  talk  when  you've  a  mind ;  but  it's 
very  rough,  very  rough  !  However,  I  must  abscond  now.  Old 
Stocks  wants  me  to  take  his  son  as  groom,  and  I've  promised  him  an 
auditory.     (He  takes  his  hat,  and  goes  out  by  window,  c.) 

Amy.  (Playfully  imitating  Mk.  Trevor.)  Promised  him  an 
auditory  ! 

Reuben.  Stop,  Amy  !  Never  mimic  your  grandpapa.  He  was 
your  mother's  father. 

Amy.     (Earnestly.)     I'm  very  sorry.     Forgive  me. 

Reuben.     Yes,  pet  ;  but  don't  do  it  again.     (Kisses  her.) 

Amy.     Indeed  I  won't ! 

Reuben.  That  creeper's  loose,  Amy.  (Takes  up  a  hammer.)  Just 
give  me  the  list  and  tbe  nails  ;  we  must  have  all  tidy  for  aunt  Lily. 
(He  nails  xip  a  creeper  by  the  entrance  of  conservatory.)  There,  it's 
come  down  !  I've  broken  it  off.  Clumsy  fellow  !  What  have  such 
hands  as  mine  to  do  with  flowers  ? 

Amy.  You're  not  clumsy,  although  you  choose  to  say  so.  Now, 
Reuben,  shall  I  tell  you  what  you  always  put  me  in  mind  of? 

Reuben.  (Laughing,  and  throwing  himself  into  a  chair.)  Why,  a 
great  furze-bush,  that  can  touch  nothing  without  tearing  it. 

Amy.  You  know  better,  sir.  Y'ou're  like  the  great  elm-tree  yon- 
der ;  when  I  try  to  clasp  its  broad  trunk,  I  say,  "Elm-tree,  how 
strong  you  are! — just  like  Reuben."  And  when  I  look  up  at  its 
green  leaves,  and  see  the  sun  come  through  them,  not  fierce,  but  soft 
and  gentle,  I  say,  "Elm-tree,  how  kind  you  are!"  —  that's  like 
Reuben  again. 

Reuben.     Nonsense,  chatterbox  !     (She  jumps  on  his  knee.) 


SCENE    I.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  5 

Amy.  Hush!  It's  of  no  use  playing  at  hide-and-seek  with  me. 
I  know  who's  gentle  and  good.  I  know  who  took  the  poor  pcacher- 
lud  for  a  servant,  and  made  him  honest  by  kindness.  I  know  who 
rode  twenty  miles  through  a  snow  storm  to  get  news  of  poor  Lucy 
Thompson's  sailor  boy.  I  know  who  has  been  brother  and  father  to 
somebody  who  loves  him  as  if  he  were  both.     {Kisses  him.) 

Reulien.  Silence,  prater !  All  that's  rough  about  me  is  mv  own. 
(In  an  undertone  as  to  himself.)  If  there's  any  thing  better,  it's  the 
work  of  another. 

Amy.  {Hearing  him.)  And  if  she  made  you  good,  she  ought  to  be 
pleased  with  her  work.  And  so  she  will  be.  What  joy  to  think  that 
aunt  Lilian's  coming  home  — coming  home  well,  though  we  thought 
she  would  die,  like  my  own  dear  mother  ! 

Reuben.     Hush,  hush,  dear! 

Amy.  O,  if  there  could  be  a  little  window  before  your  heart,  that 
she  could  see  through  !  For  although  she  loves  you  so,  still  I  should 
like1  her  to  know  how  very  good  you've  grown  since  she  went.  O, 
if  you  would  only  talk  to  people,  that  they  might  know  what  you 
really  are  ! 

R  uben.  They  won't  know  by  my  talking,  then.  I  leave  fine 
speeches  to  folks  who  write  plays  and  storks,  and  such  like  trash. 

Amy.  {Dra ici/i  i  from  his  oat  pocket  a  rather  worn  volume.)  And 
so,  sir,  you  hide  your  trash  there  !  How  often  have  I  caught  you 
reading  it  ?  It's  the  very  story  aunt  Lilian  used  to  tell  me.  I 
never  quite  liked  it,  though.  The  people  were  so  naughty  to  each 
other  at  last,  though  they'd  been  little  man  and  wile  from  children, 
just  like  you  and  aunt  Lilian.  O,  see  !  here's  the  postman  coming 
up  the  walk.     Let  me  run  and  see  what  he's  got. 

Reuben.  OIF  she  goes,  then,  {lie  kisses  her  ;  Amy  runs  out,  c.  d. 
I..  H.  ;  he  takes  tip  the  book,  and  gazes  on  the  title  ]Jage.)  Lilian 
Trevor!  —  Her  own  dear  name,  written  by  herself  —  so  light,  so  del- 
icate, it  seems  like  looking  at  her.  I  wonder  at  times  that  she  could 
ever  love  a  coarse,  awkward  fellow  like  me.  I  suppose  it  was  being 
used  to  me.  We  lived  in  this  house  together  when  we  wore  pin- 
afores.    To  think  that  next  month  she'll  be  here  ! 

Amy.  [Bursting  into  the  room,  c.  i>.  L.  u.,  with  a  letter.)  It's  for 
yo'i  ;  guess  from  whom.  It  ought  to  have  been  here  before.  See, 
it's  marked  "  too  late  !  "  (Reuhen  takes  the  letter,  and  remains  look- 
ing at  the  address.) 

Amy.  {Capping  her  hands  impatiently.)  Do  open  it,  there's  a 
dear  ! 

Reuben.  From  her !  why,  she  ought  now  to  he  at  sea.  If  it 
should  be  to  say  that  she's  not  coining  —  that  she's  again  ill  !  {He 
compares  the  direction  with  the  handwriting  in  the  book.)  See  how 
trembling  the  handwriting  looks  beside  this.  She  is  ill  !  {He  opens 
the  letter  with  an  ejfort,  and  reads.) 

"  Southampton,  Tuesday. 
"  My  very  dear   Reuben: —  This  date  will  surprise  you;    I  myself 
can  hardly  believe  that  I  am  once  more  in  England.     I  met  with  an  un- 
looked-for chance  of  leaving  Madeira  ;  and  I  know  that  neither  my  dear 
1* 


6  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  [ACT   I. 

father,  yourself,  nor  my  little  Amy  will,  be  sorry  to  see  me  sooner  than 
you  expected. 

"  I  am  a  little  tired  teith  my  journey  ;  but  do  not  suppose  lam  ill. 
To-morrow  I  take  the  rail  home,  and  shall  be  with  you  by  noon.  God 
bless  you  all.  Your  ever  affectionate 

Lilian  Trevor." 

AVhat  can  it  mean?  Southampton! —  Tuesday!  —  the  words  ring 
like  bells  in  my  ears;  but  I  can't  catch  the  sense.  {Glancing  again 
over  the  letter.}  Southampton!  —  Tuesday!  —  an  unlookea-f or  chance 
of  laving  Madeira! — the  rail  home!  —  be  with  you  by  noon!  (He 
stands  silent ;  then  turns  suddenly,  and  catches  Amy's  arm.)  This  is 
you,  Amy  ? 

Amy.     Of  course  it  is,  dear.     How  happy  we  shall  be  ! 

Peahen.  That's  right.  I  ask  ;  you  answer.  There's  the  hammer 
on  the  floor,  and  the  list  I  was  nailing  round  the  plants.  It's  all  real ! 
And  so  she's (Pausing.) 

Amy.     Coming  home. 

Reuben.     When  ? 

Amy.  She  wrote  on  Tuesday  —  yesterday.  Why,  it  must  be 
to-day  ! 

Reuben.  Coming  home  to-day  !  Bless  you  for  saying  it  !  I 
know  it  now  ;  but  till  you  said  so  I  couldn't  take  it  in.  And  by 
noon  !  (Looks  at  the  letter,  then  at  his  watch.)  Why,  it's  near  noon 
already. 

Amy.  Well,  let's  tell  grandpapa,  and  go  to  the  station  to  meet 
her. 

Reuben.  Yes,  yes.  Let  me  tell  him,  though.  Run  and  get  your 
hat.  (Exit  Amy,  n.  l.  h.  2  e.)  At  noon  to-day!  O,  shame  on 
me;  I'm  almost  afraid  to  see  her  !  It  will  be  the  old  tale  when 
she  comes  back  ;  I  shan't  have  a  word  to  say  for  myself. 

Enter  Mr.  Trevor,  with  a  letter,  c.  r>.  r.  h. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Reuben,  I  must  beg  your  attention.  I've  just  re- 
ceived a  most  consequential  letter. 

Reuben.     So  have  I,  sir. 

Mr.  Trevor.  We'll  talk  of  yours  by  and  by.  Mine  is  about  the 
family  pedagogue,  and  therefore  the  most  important. 

Reuben.     Ha,  ha  !     You  think  so  r 

Mr.  Trevor.     Yes  ;  it's  on  matters  connected  with  our  family. 

Reuben.     So  is  mine. 

Mr.  Trevor.     Reuben,  I  mean  the  old  family  tree. 

Reuben.     Well,  I  mean  a  branch  of  it. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Indeed  ;  I've  distinct  information  as  to  two  of  my 
missing  pro — pro —  What's  the  word  ?  (Refers  to  the  letter.)  O, 
about  two  of  my  missing  progenitors. 

Reuben.  And  I've  distinct  information  as  to  one  of  your  missing 
progeny. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Progenitors,  sir  ;  they  write  it  so  at  the  Heralds' 
College. 


SCENE    I.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  7 

Reuben.  Confound  the  Heralds'  College!  Forgive  me,  sir;  I 
speak  of  the  living,  not  of  the  dead. 

Mr.  Trevor.    Calm  yourself;  a  gentleman  should  never  be  in  citable. 

Reuben.  A  man  may  be,  though.  Mr.  Trevor,  lather, — ay,  let 
me  say  father,  —  she's  coming  ;   she's  in  England. 

Mr.  Trevor.     She  !      Who  ? 

Reuben.  Head — read!  (lie  thrusts  Lilian's  letter  into  Mr.  Tre- 
vor's hand.) 

Mr.  Trevor.  (Reading.)  What,  from  Lilian  !  Lilian  back  again, 
at  noon  !  Why,  that  means  noon  to-day.  What,  my  own  precious 
girl  !  Thou'rt  right,  lad ;  thy  news  was  best ;  worth  a  bushel  of 
mine.  Hang  the  Heralds'  College  !  (Casts  his  own  letter  away,  slaps 
Reuben  heartily  on  the  shoulder?)  Come,  look  alive  ;  let's  be  off  tn  the 
station  !  Thou  can  ride  the  bay-  cob,  and  I'll  drive  the  mare.  Dang 
it,  come  along,  come  along  !  I'm  not  safe  i'  the  house,  I  tell  thee  ;  I 
shall  go  up  to  the  ceiling  like  a  champagne  cork.  (  Whirling  Reuben 
to  the  window.) 

Reuben.  (Laughing .)  O,  but  you  know  a  gentleman's  never  ex- 
cited. 

Mr.  Trevor.     Why,  here's  Amy  ready. 

Enter  Amy,  attired  for  a  drive,  D.  L.  H.  2  E. 

And  what  do  I  see  ?  Why,  Reuben,  we're  too  late  !  Here  comes  a 
fly  bowling  up  the  drive —  a  fly  with  luggage  on  the  roof. 

Reuben.      (Retreating  a  few  steps.)     80  soon  ! 

Mr.  Trevor.  Why,  man,  what  art  thou  skulking  to  the  rear  for  in 
that  way  ?  Come  out  and  welcome  her.  Hark  !  the  fly's  stopped. 
Lily,  my  own  Lily  !      (He  rushes  out.  c.  n.  L.  11.) 

Amy.     Come,  Reuben.     (Attempts  to  drag  him  out.) 

Reuben.     Leave  me  to  myself  a  bit. 

Amy.     No,  I  shan't. 

Redder  Mr.  Trevor,  with  Lilian,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Here  she  is,  here  she  is,  blessings  on  her  !  (Em- 
bracing her. ) 

Lilian.  Dear,  dear  father  !  Reuben  !  (Reuben  takes  her  hand 
between  both  of  his  and  kisses  it  ) 

Mr.  Trevor.     Her  lips,  her  lips,  boy  !     Thou  won't  ? 

Lilian.     Then  Amy  must  give  me  a  double  one. 

Amy.  That  she  will,  dear  aunt  Lily.  Now  I'm  mistress;  sit 
down.     (She  takes  Lilian's  shawl  and  bonnet.) 

Reuben.  (Placing  a  footstool.)  And  thou'rt  well — quite  well, 
Lilian  ? 

Mr.  Trevor.  Well !  to  be  sure  she  is.  Now,  if  we  only  had  her 
brother  back  from  America. 

Lilian.     What  news  of  Fred  ? 

Mr.  Trevor.  All  right  and  hearty.  Fred  will  be  here  by  winter. 
But  I  did  expect,  lass,  thou  would  have  brought  back  a  pair  of  rosier 
cheeks. 


8  A   HARD   STRUGGLE.  [ACT   I. 

Lilian.  (After  a  short  pause,  and  speaking  with  sudden  animation.') 
Rosy  cheeks,  indeed  !  What  does  my  lather  take  me  for,  Amy  ? 
What  does  he  expect  of  a  young  lady  after  a  long  sea  voyage,  a  night 
made  sleepless  hy  the  thought  of  seeing  you  all,  and  eighty  miles  trav- 
elling by  express  ?  Isn't  it  hard,  that  when  I  thought  to  surprise  him 
by  my  strength,  he  should  scold  me  for  not  blooming  like  a  peony? 
(She  rises,  seizes  Mr.  Trevor's  hands,  and  playfully  swings  them  to- 
gether ;  then  turns  to  Reuhex  with  a  sort  of  impetuous  gaye/y.)  And 
what  do  you  think  of  me,  Reuben  ? 

Reuben.  "What  do  I  think  of  you  ?  Why,  you  must  know  pretty 
■well  by  this  time.  No  ;  perhaps  you  don't ;  (getting  confused)  that 
is,  nobody  knows  —  I  mean  —  pshaw  ! 

Mr.  Trevor.  Well,  and  our  kind  friends  at  Madeira,  who  took 
charge  of  thee  —  the  Maxwells  ?  Thou  left 'cm  all  tidy,  ch  :  And 
the  young  surgeon,  Fergus  Graham,  who  attended  thee  on  the  pas- 
sage out,  when  thou  caught  the  fever  with  the  rest.  A  brave  fellow 
that  ;  he  seems  to  have  cared  neither  for  his  sleep  nor  his  life. 

Reuben.  Ay,  tell  us  of  Fergus  Graham.  (Lilian  sinks  into  a 
chair.) 

Mr.  Trevor.     Why,  what  ails  thee  ? 

Reuben.     (Alarmed.)     Lilian  ! 

Lilian.  (Rallying,  with  a  forced  laugh.)  You  make  me  quite 
ashamed.     It  was  but  a  thought. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Ay,  of  her  past  danger.  What  an  old  fool  I  was  to 
put  her  in  mind  of  it  !  Why,  Amy,  we're  :ill  forgetting  that  your 
aunty's  nearly  famished.     Run  and  order  luncheon. 

(Exit  Amy,  d.  l.  ii.  2  e.) 

Lilian.     No  —  indeed  I'm  not  hungry  ;  only  a  little  tired. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Come,  then,  Reuben  ;  let's  leave  her  to  herself  for 
half  an  hour.  She'll  have  her  little  knick-knacks  to  settle,  and  such 
like.  (With  a  return  to  his  pompous  manner.)  Remain  here,  love, 
while  I  send  your  maid  to  conduct  you  to  your  own  apartment. 
She's  an  excellent,  well-meaning  sort  of  young  woman  ;  but  I  mean 
to  engage  for  you  a  regular  ed-u-cated  French  feminine-de-chamber 
straight  from  Paris  —  a  Frenchwoman  who  talks  French.  By-by, 
love  —  by-by,  love.      (Kisses  his  hand  to  her,  and  exit,  o.  R.  n.  2  e.) 

Reuben.  Don't  tire  yourself,  Lilian  —  please  don't.  Don't  come 
down  to  lunch  if  it's  too  much  lor  you. 

Lilian.  Thoughtful  for  me  as  ever,  dear  Reuben.  (She  holds  out 
her  hand  ;  REUBEN  again  kisses  it.) 

Reuben.     (Aside.)     I'm  not  good  enough  for  her  —  I  know  I'm  not. 
(lie  hastily  follows  Mu.  TiiEVOE  out,  d.  r.  H.  2  e.) 

Lilian.  (Who  looks  fixedly  after  them,  ihen  catches  at  a  chair  as  if 
for  support.)  They  are  gone —  gone  at  last !  O  that  I  should  ever 
feel  it  a  relief  for  my  father,  for  Reuben,  to  leave  me,  so  good,  so 
loving  as  they  are!  (A  pause.)  O,  if  I  could  be  already  old  and 
torpid  !  If  the  hours  would  but  pass  over  me  as  over  yon  dial,  that 
tells,  but  does  not  feel,  the  flight  of  time!  Or  if  my  own  mother 
had  lived,  and  I  could  have  told  her  my  struggle  !  O,  shame,  shame  ! 
Is  this  my  firmness?  Let  me  reflect  that  1  am  Reuben's  betrothed  — 
that  I  became  so  by  my  own  will  —  that  I  had  strength  to  uy  from 


SCENE    I.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  9 

those  fatal  shores  while  there  was  yet  time.     Yes,  Heaven  help  me, 
aud  I  shall  conquer. 

Enter  Susan,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Susan.  A  gentleman  has  called,  ma'am.  I  think  he  be  a  stranger 
in  these  parts;  but  he's  very  pressing  to  see  you. 

Lilian.     Indeed ! 

Susan.  It's  most  likely  some  one  from  the  railway  station  ;  for  all 
your  luggage  arn't  up  yet,  and  he  asked  particler  if  you  was  come 
home. 

Lilian.     I  dare  say  you're  right.     Let  him  come  in. 

Susan.  Yes,  ma'am.  (Exit,  c.  d.  l.  h.,  and  immediately  returns.") 
The  gentleman,  ma'am.  (Exit,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Enter  Fergus  Graham,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Fergus.     An  old  friend. 

Lilian.     Fergus  !  Mr.  Graham  ! 

Fergus.  My  presence  here  is  indeed  sudden,  perhaps  abrupt,  dear 
Miss  Trevor  ;  but  let  me  hope  not  quite  unwelcome.  ( Taking  her 
hand.) 

Lilian.  (Commanding  herself.")  A  friend  to  whom  I  owe  so  much 
can  never  be  unwelcome.  (She  motions  him  to  a  chair,  and  takes  one 
herself.)     Put  I  was,  as  you  may  judge,  unprepared  for  this  pleasure. 

Fergus.  It  was  only  a  few  days  since  that  I  learned  in  Paris  of 
your  sudden  departure  from  Madeira.  I  had  looked  forward,  as  you 
know,  to  find  you  still  there  on  my  return.  Hearing  that  you  had 
by  this  time  probably  reached  England,  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse 
to  see  you  —  to  see  you  in  your  home. 

Lilian.     It  was  a  kind  and  friendly  impulse. 

Fergus.  Friendly  !  Yes.  And  yet  that  word  poorly  describes  it. 
Friendly  applies  to  acts  that  consult  the  happiness  of  another  ;  mine 
involved  my  own  —  all,  all,  Lilian,  that  I  have  at  stake  in  life. 

Lilian.     Nay,  life  has  so  many  stakes,  at  least  for  men. 

Fergus.  (Drawing  his  chair  towards  her.)  Can  you  misinterpret 
me  r  You  know  that  in  Madeira  I  was  privileged  to  enter  the  house 
where  you  dwelt  as  if  I  had  been  of  the  family.  You  have  not  for- 
gotten those  morning  walks,  when  our  common  love  of  nature  was  a 
tie  between  us ;  when  I  bent  over  you  as  you  sketched  some  bold 
headland,  or  caught  some  rare  effect  of  sea  and  sky  ;  or  the  nights 
when  you  were  my  scholar,  and  we  read  together  some  poet  of  our 
dear  England,  or  some  lay  of  Italy  ? 

Lilian.  No,  Fergus,  I  have  not  forgotten  how  kindly  you  taught 
me  —  how  you  enriched  the  life  that  you  had  first  saved. 

Fergus.  Our  tastes  were  one,  our  sympathies  one.  At  times  I 
dared  to  hope  our  hearts  also.  Yet  I  trembled  to  speak.  Then  busi- 
ness called  me  from  Madeira  to  Fiance.  She  shall  know  all,  I 
thought,  on  my  return.  You  quitted  Madeira  suddenly.  When  I 
heard  of  it,  heard  that  you  might  already  be  in  England,  I  left  Paris 
at  once.  And  now  I  am  here  —  here  to  say  —  ah,  do  you  not  divine 
what  ?     Lilian,  I  love  you  ! 


10  A    HARD    8TRVGGLE.  [ACT   I. 

Lilian.  Fergus,  you  have  spoken  !  I  have  ever,  must  ever,  honor 
and  value  you  ;  but  those  -words  part  us. 

Fergus.  Part  us  !  Has  hope,  then,  so  deceived  me  ?  May  not  a 
time  come  ? 

Lilian.  Never  !  If,  indeed,  you  care  for  me,  leave  —  leave  me  at 
once. 

Fergus.  Pause,  Lilian  ;  those  brief  -words  of  yours  strike  at  a  life's 
dream.  "Weigh  them  well.  If  it  must  be,  I  accept  my  fate.  You 
do  not,  then,  cannot  love  me  ? 

Lilian.     (Rising.)     Go  !   go  !     I  —  can  never  —  be  yours. 

Fergus.  Because  you  do  not  love  me  ?  (.4  pause.)  Ah,  you  do 
not  say  that  ! 

Lilian.  Leave  me,  I  say,  at  once,  unless  you  -would  bring  a  curse 
upon  the  life  that  you  preserved. 

Fergus.  One  -word  first.  You  tremble ;  this  vehemence  is  not 
indifference.  Say  either  that  you  cannot  love  me,  or  if  there  be  any 
barrier  that  you  may  not  yet  speak  of,  —  one  that  time,  however  long, 
may  remove,  —  tell  me,  and  I  will  -wait  —  wait  even  till  years  have 
blanched  my  hair  and  sapped  my  strength,  changed  me  in  all  except 
what  cannot  change,  my  abiding,  quenchless  love,  (lie  throws  him- 
self at  her  feet,  and  seizes  her  hand.  Here  Amy  appears  at  the  entrance 
of  the  conservatory,  C.) 

Lilian.  (Almost  fiercely.)  Begone,  sir  !  lam  not  at  confession. 
When  a  woman  does  not  admit  her  love,  I  presume  that  she  denies  it. 
Release  my  hand  !  leave  me,  I  command  you  !  (Breaking  away  from 
him.     Amy  retires,  c.) 

Fergus.  (Rising,  and  speaking  with  mournful  dignity.)  I  obey  you. 
You  have  spoken  now.  The  friend,  Lilian,  may  still  think  of  yon, 
though  the  lover  dares  not.  Bless  you  !  (Aside,  as  she  stands  with 
her  face  averted.)  What  !  not  even  a  look  ?  Farewell !  farewell ! 
(lie  takes  up  a  light  travelling  coat,  and  goes  out  slowly,  C.  n.  L.  n.) 

Lilian.  He  goes  —  goes  without  one  kind  word  !  Repulsed  so 
fiercely,  how  heartless  must  he  think  me  !  He  will  return  to  the 
scenes  where  we  -were  happy  friends.  We  shall  meet  no  more.  That 
might  be  borne  —  should  be.  But  that  I  should  never  cross  his 
memory  except  as  an  image  of  pain  and  ingratitude,  that  I  should 
lose  all  place  in  his  esteem  —  O,  'tis  bitter  —  bitter  !  He  will  never 
know  what  I  stifle  here.  Years  will  roll  on,  death  will  come,  and 
even  then  he  will  never  —  never  —  (she  totters,  and  is  on  the  point  of 
falling.) 

Enter  Reuben  by  the  window,  c.      With  a  cry  she  throws  herself  into 
his  arms. 

Reuben.  Lilian  !  dear  Lilian  !  Why,  what  is  this  ?  Speak  to 
me,  my  own,  my  darling  !  She  has  fainted ;  she  must  have  air. 
Help  !  help  !     {He  bears  her  out,  c.  d.  r.  h.) 


8CEXE   I.]  A   HARD   STRTTOGLE.  11 

Enter  Mr.  Trevor,  d.  r.  h.  2  e.,  meeting  Amy,  who  emerges  from  the 
conservatory,  c. 

Mr.  Trevor.  What  cry  -was  that  ?  It  threw  me  into  a  state  of 
positive  conjuration  ! 

Amy.  Don't  be  frightened,  grandpapa.  I  hope  aunty  ■will  soon  bo 
better. 

Mr.  Trevor.     Better  ! 

Amy.  Something  happened  to  vex  her.  I  saw  it  by  chance, 
and 

Mr.  Trevor.     "Where  is  she  ?     "Where  is  Reuben  ? 

Amy.  With  her;  he  took  her  into  the  garden.  O,  pray  don't  go, 
dear  grandpapa  ;  the  sight  of  you  might  be  too  much  for  her. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Why,  how  you  cling  to  me,  child  !  and  you're  shak- 
ing like  a  leaf.     What  lias  happened  ? 

Amy.     O,  nothing  very  bad  ;  nothing  that  I  quite  understand. 

Mr.  Trevor.     What  did  you  see  ? 

Amy.  Aunt  Lilian  will  tell  you;  but  not  now,  dear  grandpapa ; 
don't  ask  her  now. 

Mr.  Trevor.     You'll  drive  me  out  of  my  senses.     Let  me  go  ! 

Amy.     Nay,  look  ;  here  is  Reuben  ! 

Reenter  Reubex,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Reuben.  Lilian's  better  now,  sir  ;  the  air  did  her  good.  I  left  her 
with  Susan,  who  will  take  her  to  her  room.  She  begged  me  to  tell 
you  that  she  was  but  over-tired,  and  should  soon  be  herself. 

Mr.  Trevor.  That's  well.  She's  had  enough  to  overset  her.  Rut 
Amy  spoke  of  some  accident.     What  did  you  see,  Amy: 

Amy.     It  was  so  strange  !     I'm  afraid  to  say. 

Reuben.  (Patting  her  head  encouragingly.)  Amy  will  tell  me,  if 
she  ever  loved  Reuben. 

Amy.     Then  I  think  aunty  has  had  a  fright. 

Reuben.     A  fright  ! 

Amy.  I  was  in  the  conservatory,  and  had  pulled  a  nosegay  for  her. 
I  was  just  coming  into  the  room,  when 

Reuben.     Yes  ;  'go  on,  love. 

Amy.  I  saw  a  gentleman,  a  stranger.  Aunt  Lilian  was  ordering 
him  to  leave  the  house  ;  so  I  suppose  he  had  done  something  wrong. 

Reuben.  (Repressing  Mr.  Trevor,  ivho  attempted  to  speak.)  So  — 
well  ? 

Amy.  But  he  wouldn't  go  —  not  then.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
knees,  and  grasped  her  hand  —  O,  so  tight!  I  suppose  it  was  that 
that  hurt  her.  I  went  back  again,  for  I  didn't  like  her  to  see  me  ; 
but  I  just  saw  her  look  very  angry,  and  tear  herself  away  from  him. 
She  again  ordered  him  to  leave  her,  and  spoke  so  !  —  O,  I  never  heard 
her  angry  before.  Then  I  heard  him  go  up  the  walk,  and  your  voice, 
Reuben,  and  what  you  said  when  you  came  in ;  and  that's  all  that 
I  know. 

Reuben.     He  dared  to  insult  her  ? 

Amy.     I'm  afraid  so ;  else,  why  did  she  speak  so  loud  ? 


12  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  [ACT  I. 

Mr.  Trevor.     The  pertinacious  rascal  ! 

Reuben.  Leave  him  to  me,  sir.  This  man,  Amy ;  -what  did  he 
look  like  ? 

Amy.  Why,  like  a  young  man.  He  didn't  look  -wicked,  though 
I'm  afraid  he  was. 

Reuben.     Young,  you  say  ? 

Amy.     Yes. 

Reuben.     What  height  ? 

Amy.     About  yours,  but  slenderer. 

Reuben.     What  did  he  wear  ? 

Amy.     Nothing  particular.     O,  I  saw  his  light  overcoat  on  a  chair. 

Reuben.  The  very  man  I  met  in  the  avenue  ;  he  had  such  a  coat 
on  his  arm.     That's  enough  !     {Seizes  his  hat  and  riding  whip.) 

Amy.     Stay,  Reuben  !     You'll  not  hurt  him  r 

Reuben.     Let  me  but  catch  him. 

Amy.  (Intercepting  him  )  You  know  how  often,  when  I  was 
naughty,  you  said,  "Treat  her  gently,  and  she'll  mend."  Ah,  treat 
him  gently  !     Besides,  Aunt  Lilian's  better. 

Reuben,     (fluttering  to  himself.)     He  dared  to  insult  her  ! 

Mr.  Trevor.  (Seizing  Reuben's  arm.)  Yes;  Lilian's  better.  Don't 
thrash  him,  Reuben  ;  that's  low.  What  if  he  should  be  one  of  those 
dashing  young  sparks  from  London,  on  a  visit  in  the  neighborhood  ? 
If  so,  you  might  call  him  out,  my  boy.  A  duel  would  set  the  family 
on  its  legs.  It's  perfectly  gentlemanly,  quite  illegitimate,  and  not  at 
all  dangerous. 

Reuben.  (Disregarding  him.)  He  turned  to  the  right.  He  would 
get  out  through  the  copse  by  the  oat-field  into  the  Uppingham  road. 
Ay,  that's  the  scent ;  now  for  the  chase !  (He  brea/cs  from  Mr. 
Trevor,  and  darts  out,  full  speed,  c.  n.  l.  h.) 

Mr.  Trevor.  (Disconsolately.)  Come,  Amy  !  Let's  hear  Susan's 
news  of  your  aunt.  (To  himself.)  As  for  that  boy,  he  has  no  grand 
sentiments;  he  suffers  from  a  complete  vac — vaccination  of  gentle- 
manly ideas,  and  will  do  nothing  to  extirpate  the  family  honor  !  But 
he  has  a  good  heart  —  a  good  heart ;  so  I  suppose  I  must  be  intoler- 
able to  him.     Come,  Amy !     (He  leads  her  out  at  door,  r.  h.  2  e.) 


Scene  II.  —  Room  in  the  Old  Swan  at   Uppingham,  1  O.     Set  door 
L.  H.  1  E.      The  open  bay  window  looks  upon  the  road. 

Enter  Fergus  Graham  and  Landlady,  d.  l.  h.  1  e. 

Fergus.  That  will  do,  landlady  ;  that  will  do.  Have  the  good- 
ness to  order  the  fly  at  once. 

Landlady.  (Aside.)  Why,  he  don't  ask  after  his  change  ;  and 
there's  two  shillings  back  out  of  his  half-sovereign  for  the  fly.  I  won- 
der -whether  its  good.  (  Testing  the  half-sovereign.)  Yes,  it  is.  Your 
change,  sir. 

Fergus.  Give  it  to  your  servant,  mv  good  woman ;  but  do  order 
the  fly. 

Landlady.  Why,  you'll  be  at  the  station  an  hour  before  the  train, 
sir. 


SCENE    II.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  13 

Fergus.     No  matter.     I  wish  to  start  at  once. 

Landlady.  (Nettled.)  O,  of  course,  sir,  if  you  prefer  the  station 
waiting  room  ti  the  parlor  of  the  Swan.  Every  gentleman  has  a  right 
to  his  taste.     (Exit,  R.  n.  1  E.} 

Fergus.  (Walking  up  and  down.)  Motion!  Action!  I  cannot 
bear  to  think.  If  it  had  only  been  that  I  mistook  her  feelings,  and 
that  she  refused  me,  why,  that  would  have  been  a  shock  ;  but  I  could 
have  endured  it.  I  could  still  have  honored  her,  trusted  in  her.  But 
to  be  ordered  from  her  presence  so  disdainfully,  —  even  fiercely,  —  as 
if  the  best  homage  of  my  heart  were  an  insult  to  her !  (A  pause.) 
And  yet,  she  once  so  gentle —  so  fearful  of  giving  pain  !  Is  it  possi- 
ble that  she  can  be  so  utterly  transformed  ?  "Was  it  indeed  disdain, 
or  was  it  misery,  that  I  read  in  her  face  ?  What  if  there  should  be 
some  dark  mystery  over  her  fate  that  she  dares  not  even  hint  at  ?  I 
would  believe  that  —  any  thing  —  rather  than  that  she  could  be  ca- 
pricious and  cruel.  (  Walking  to  the  window,  l.  f.,  he  observes  Reuben' 
without,  gazing  on  him  with  a  stem  and  fixed  expression.)  Who's  that? 
(After  a  pause  Reuben  moves  away.)  That  man's  face  quite  riveted 
me.  (He  turns,  and.  perceives  Reuben,  icho  stands,  with  a  menacing 
look,  at  the  door  of  the  apartment,  L.  h.  1  E.,  then  locks  it,  takes  the  key, 
and  walking  steadily  up  to  the  table,  confronts  Fergus  in  silence. — 
After  a  pause,  ivith  haughty  calmness.)  You  mistake  a  house  of  pub- 
lic entertainment  for  your  private  dwelling.  Why  have  you  locked 
that  door  ? 

Reuben.  (Speaking  in  a  deep  whisper.)  That  you  may  not  go  out 
without  my  leave. 

Fergus.  (Aside.)  The  man  must  be  insane.  I'll  deal  with  him 
firmly,  but  quietly.     My  friend,  I  must  trouble  you  for  that  key. 

Reuben.  Not  yet.  You're  the  young  man  who  left  Mr.  Trevor's 
house  a  wrhile  back  ? 

Fergus.     The  same,  sir. 

Reuben.  You  own  it  —  the  coward,  who  broke  into  a  lady's  pres- 
ence, insulted  her,  shocked  her  by  his  violence  ! 

Fergus.  Have  a  care.  At  first,  I  thought  you  a  madman,  and  you 
have  been  safe  ;  but  there  is  coherence  even  in  your  falsehood.  Do 
you  dare 

Reuben.  (Breaki?ig  in.)  Do  you  dare  —  you  who  stole  in  upon  a 
woman  alone,  who  laid  hands  on  her  till  her  cries  of  anger  and  fear 
were  heard  !     Is  it  for  you  to  say  —  dare  ? 

Fergus.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Reuben.     (Brandishing  his  whip.)     Mean  !     To  give  you  a  lesson. 

Fergus.  Stand  back !  stand  back  !  or^you  shall  rue  to  your  last 
hour  that  you  ever  raised  your  hand  to  Fergus  Graham. 

Reuben.  ( Who  drops  the  horseiohip  and  stands  arrested.)  Who  ? 
who  ?     Fergus  —  Fergus  Graham  ? 

Fergus.     Leave  the  room. 

Reuben.  (Going  to  the  door,  unlocking  it,  and  returning .)  Stay  ! 
you're  not  —  not  the  young  doctor  who  saved  Lilian's  life  at  sea  ? 

Fergus.  My  name  is  Fergus  Graham  ;  you  should  have  asked  it 
before. 

Reuben.  Sir,  I  humbly,  humbly  entreat  your  pardon.  You  could 
2 


14  A    HARD    STRUG GI/n.  [ACT    I. 

not  have  insulted  her.     Yet  she  fainted  in  my  arms  as  you  went. 
How  came  that  ? 

Fergus.     By  what  right  do  you  ack  ? 

Reuben.  By  the  right  of  one  who  has  been  bred  up  under  the 
same  root' with  her  ;  her  playmate  in  childhood,  her  protector  now  — 
one  who  has  the  right  of  b  |  rati  er. 

Fergus.  Her  Lrother  !  She  has  often  spoken  of  you  ;  but  I  thought 
you  were  abroad. 

Reuben,     No,  no  ;  you  mistake.     I'm  not  Fred. 

Fergus.  (Gnutteously  )  Pardon  me.  I  was  not  aware  that  Misi 
Trevor  had  a  second  Lrother. 

Reuben.  (.l.< ■•■<■,  ha'f-amuszd.)  \Yhy,  I  can't  blab  my  heart's  se- 
crets to  a  stranger,  and  say  —  I'm  her  L>r?r,  Let  him  call  me  what 
he  likes. 

Ftrgu*.  Be  seated,  sir.  And  so  she  complained  to  you  of  my 
intrusion  ? 

Reuben.  She  —  (),  never  !  But  she  was  heard  bidding  you  from 
the  house.     You  were  seen  to  force  her  hand. 

Fergus.  To  tuke  it.  I  v.  iil  be  frank  with  you.  I  sought  your  sis- 
ter's hand  for  my  own.     Heaven  knows  with  what  reverence. 

Reuben.  (.-I*  ,i.)  He  loved  her,  then — he  loved  her  !  Poor  fel- 
low, how  could  he  help  it  i  —  Mr.  Graham,  I  feci  ior  you.  Take  my 
hand  —  that  is  if  you  can  really  forgive  me. 

Fergus.     (Shaking  his  hand  warmly.)     Freely. 

Reuben.  Yet  I  can't  mo^e  it  out  There  could  be  no  offence  in  an 
offer  like  yours.  Yet  w  hy  did  she  bid  you  b?gone  i  why  sink  fainting 
into  my  arms  ? 

F<  rgus.  Did  it  co?t  her  so  much,  then  ?  (  Moves  his  chair  nearer 
to  Reuben's,  and  continues  in  a  lno,  earnest  coiej.)  Do  not  think  me 
presumptuous  ;  but  I  have  dared  to  think 

Reuben.  [Authoritatively.)  Stop  !  I'll  hear  no  more.  I've  no 
right  to 

Fergus.  [Persisting.)  To  think  that,  after  all,  Lilian  may  still 
love  me. 

Reuben.  [Compassionately.)  No,  my  dear  fellow,  you  mustn't 
think  that ;  you  mustn't,  indeed. 

Fergus.  I  will  never  breathe  that  hope  without  warrant  ;  but 
Btili  - — 

Reuben.     No  more,  I  be:?.     Sure,  Lilian  refused  you? 

Fergus.  Ay,  but  her  agitation ;  her  trembling  form  ;  her  look  of 
wretchedness,  that  I  at  first  took  for  anger 

Reuben.     Again,  I  say,  I',ve  no  right  to  your  secrets. 

Fergus.  Nay,  you  shall  hear  me.  What  if  there  should  be  some 
mystery  ? 

Reuben.  (Liying  his  hand  soothingly  on  Graham's  shoulder.)  You 
mustn't  give  way  to  this.     What  mystery  can  tke'-e  be? 

Fergus.     Fathers,    Lefore   now,    have    forced   children    to   marry 
against  their  will. 
.  Reuben.     Ah,  that's  not  her  case. 

Fergus.  Or  there  have  been  —  forgive  the  hope  that  would  clutch 
at  a  straw  —  there  have  been  such  things  as  childish  engagements,  — 


6CENE    II.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  15 

engagements  made  befrre  the  young  heart  knew  what  love  meant ;  yet 
which  a  cruel,  a  false  honor  bound  it  to  keep.  Ah,  that's  a  hitter 
■wrong  to  both  ! 

Reuben.     {Sharply.)     "What's  that  to  do  with  Lilian  ? 

Fergus.  I  can't  say  ;  very  likely  nothing.  But  she  had  Iked  leng 
in  retirement.  It  was  only  in  Madeira  —  she  told  me  so  —  that  she 
first  seemed  to  live.  It  is  not  only  for  myself  I  care.  Put  me  out  of 
the  question  ;  but,  O,  if  any  chance  should  bind  her  to  one  -who  could 
not  understand  her  refined,  gentle  nature,  —  to  one  with  whom  she 
■would  suffer,  die  uncomplainingly  ! 

Reuben.  Silence,  man  !  What  d'ye  take  us  for,  us  rough  country 
folk  ?  We  mayn't  know  much  of  looks  ;  we  may  be  out  of  place  in 
drawing-rooms,  —  we  w  i'  the  sun's  tan  on  our  faces,  and  the  ploughed 
land  on  our  heels  ;  but  when  joy  comes,  —  when  grief  comes,  —  we've 
hearts  that  bound  or  burst.  We've  that  which  makes  man  man,  — 
love  to  God  and  each  other  ! 

Fergus.  Right,  right.  I  was  selfish  and  unjust.  You  must  for- 
give now. 

Reuben.  Enough,  enough  !  I  don't  care  for  soft  phrases.  {Walks 
away,  seizes  Ids  gloves,  and  confusedly  attempts  to  draw  the  -left  one  on 
his  right  hand  ;  then  speaks  aside.)  What  ii  I  should-  seem  a  mere  rude 
loon  to  her,  now  sle's  seen  the  world  and  tine  people !    O,  no,  no  ! 

Fergus.     I  have  one  more  request 

Reuben.  Whist,  whist;  my  head's  too  full  for  talk.  {Aside.)  I 
uttered  his  name  this  morning  ;  she  turned  ashy  pale.  I  thought  she 
would  have  dropped.     Why  was  that  ? 

Fergus.     {Looking  at  his  watch.)     I've  but  a  short  time  now. 

Reuben.  { still  aside.)  Dolt  that  I  am!  Hie  was  overdone  by 
seeing  us.  What  nine  natural;  {Turning  cheerfully  to  Fergus.) 
I  till  you  what,  Mr.  Graham,  you  must  forget  this  folly.  Work  hard  ; 
root  it  out.  Come  back  to  us  in  a  year  or  >o.  Who  knows  but  she'll 
be  married  then,  and  you'll  meet  her  as  her  friend,  —  her  husband's 
friend:  We'll  mount  you  well,  give  you  a  morning  gallop  over  hill 
and  moor,  find  you  a  scat  at  night  by  the  winter  lire.  We  shall  be 
as  merry  as  the  day's  long.     Come,  come ;  you'll  forget  all  else  ! 

Fergus.     If  she  forgets.     Yet 

Reuben.  {Again  walking  away,  and  asile.)  If!  lie  doul  ts  it 
still.  And  /,  —  do  I  doubt  too  r  How,  if  it  should  be  true  ?  What 
did  she  tell  him  ?  That  till  she  got  to  Madeira  she  had  never  lived. 
What  threw  her  into  that  state  when  he  leit  her?  It  couldn't  be 
hate.  He  was  her  dear  friend,  —  saved  her  life.  If  not  hatt>,  what 
was  it,  then?  (  Walks  a  step  or  tan,  then  resumes.)  Suppose  she  had 
gone  in  love  with  him,  and  felt  bound  by  duty  to  me  —  ah,  that  would 
explain  it ! 

Fen/us.     {Appronehim  him.)     One  parting  word. 

Reuben.  {Fiercely.)  You've  said  too  much  !  You've  put  a  thought 
into  my  heart  that  burns  and  rankles  ;  and,  when  I  would  tug  it  out, 
it  goes  deeper  and  deeper  ! 

Fergus.     I  ? 

Reuben.     You ! 


18  A    HARD   STRUGGLE.  [ACT   I. 

FergMS.  I  nm  sorry  to  part  with  you  so.  (Reuben  waves  him  off; 
Fergus  silently  takes  up  his  travt  Itin  /  c  ■■/'.) 

Reuben.  {Suddenly  seizing  hte  arm.)  Stay!  You  said  there  was 
some  mystery  here.  Sou  shall  not  go  till  it's  cleared  up.  I  will 
know  why  Lilian  Lade  you  from  tin1  house. 

Fergus.  (With  quiet  dignity.")  Remove  your  hand!  I  shall  not 
shrink  from  inquiry.  I  will  change  my  plans,  and  wait  your  return 
here. 

Reuben.     You  will  go  hack  with  me  ? 

Fergus.     If  you  wish  it. 

Reuben.  I  will  speak  to  her  first  alone.  If  I  find  —  your  fly's  at 
the  door.     You  had  better  go  and  countermand  it. 

Fergus.     I  will  do  so.  (Exit,  n.  i..  rr.  1  i:.") 

Reuben.  He's  deceived  himself.  Yes,  yes;  all  will  be  well  !  But 
—  but  —  {he  stops  short,  greatly  a  jitated)  —  I  won't  lie  mastered  !  I 
"will  look  it  in  the  face!  But  if  not  —  if  not  —  why,  then  I  shall 
have  cut  out  doubt  forever  from  my  heart.    {Hashes  out,  i>.  l.  k.  1  e.) 


Scene  III.  —  Drawing  Room  in  Mr.  Trevor's  House,  3  and  6  G. 
Same  as  first  scene. 

Enter  Mr.  Trevor  and  Lilian,  d.  r.  h.  2  e. 

Mr.  Trevor.  But  thou  shouldn't  have  come  down,  Lily;  thou 
really  shouldn't. 

Lilian.  Indeed,  dear  father,  I  am  better.  —  (Aside.)  O  for  strength 
for  one  brave  effort !     (lie  places  a  chair  for  her.) 

Mr.  Trevor.  Well,  thou  must  get  up  thy  good  looks,  dear  ;  for 
thou'lt  be  queen  of  the  neighborhood,  now  thou'rt  back  again.  (Sit- 
ting by  her.)  Thou  knows  thy  promise  that  thou'lt  never  leave  thy 
father,  even  when  thou'rt  married.  It's  mostly  p  r  thy  sake  that 
I've  tried  to  raise  the  family.  I  gave  a  breakfast  last  winter  to  the 
members  of  the  Roxbury  Hunt.  Sir  Richard  was  here  himself,  and  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  abstemious.  He  devoured  every  thing  that  came 
within  his  reach.  He  grew  quite  urbane,  and  slowed,  in  fact,  the 
greatest  animosity.  "  Dam'me,  you're  a  trump,  Trevor  !  "  says  he; 
and  he  positively  slapped  me  on  the  back  !     (  With  great  romplai 

Lilian.  (  Forcing  a  show  of  interest.)  And  did  he  ask  you  to  Box- 
bury,  dear  father  ? 

Mr.  Trevor.  Why,  not  in  so  many  words.  But  the  truth  is,  all 
was  confusion.  He  had  a  great  conflux  of  the  aristocracy  at  his 
house  that  winter,  and — hem  —  in  fact — I  believe  there  was  no 
beds.     But  he's  coming  from  London  soon,  and  then 

Lilian.    Indeed,  dear  father,  I  d(  in d  acquaintance.    Your 

Lily's  content  with  you  and  with  clear,  dear  Reuben. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Ay,  ay!  Reuben's  a  good  lad,  though  he  wants  pol- 
ishing up.  Anyhow,  lie  deserves  well  of  Lily.  You  should  have. 
6cen  how  he  rushed  off  to  punish  the  fellow  whose  impertinence 
alarmed  you 

Lilian.     (Starling  up.)     Punish !     "Whom  ? 


BCENK    III.]  A    HAltD    STRUGGLE.  17 

Mr.  Trevor.     Why,  the  person  who  obtruded  on  you  this  morning. 
Lilian.     [Excitedly.)     You  are  jesting  !     O,  Bay  that  you  an 

ing  !     Send  alter  them!    part  them  —  part  them,  as  you  value  my 
peace  —  my  life  ! 

Mr.  Trevor.  (Soothingly.)  Nay,  here  comes  Reuben  to  speak  for 
himself. 

Reuben,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  is  seen  approaching  the  open 
window,  c. 

Lilian.     (Darling  towards  the  windoio.)     Speak  before  you  enter  ! 

Is  he  safe  ?    You  hare  not 

Reuben.      {Coming  in.)      Nol   hurt  a  hair  of  his  head.     (Lilian 
her  arms  round  her  father.") 

Enter  Am  v. 

Mr.  Trevor.  (To  her.)  There,  I  told  thee  all  would  be  ■well.  Sit 
down,  love;  sit  down.     (He  leads  her  apart  to  a  couch.) 

Reuben.  (Aside.)  Is  he  safer  She  asked  but  for  him.  "Well, 
she  would  see  that  /  was  safe.     There  was  no  need  to  ask  about  mi 

Amy.  Do  speak  to  me,  Reuben.  If  you  could  '_'ucs  how  glad  1 
am  to  have  you  again  —  to  know  that  you've  not  done  wrong  ! 

Reuben.  (Takes  a  chair,  placet  heron  his  knee,  and  gazes  earnestly 
into  Iter  face.)  Amy,  I've  a  question  for  you.  (She  regards  him  with 
wondering  attention.)  Suppose,  Amy,  some  one  was  to  steal  your  love 
from  me  ? 

Amy.     Reuben  ! 

Reuben.     '  t •' y,  suppose  so  ? 

Amy.  (Trembling.)  O,  what  have  I  doner  You  know  that 
could  never  be  —  never  ! 

Reuben.  Well,  let's  put  it  another  way.  Suppose  any  one  was  to 
steal  my  love  from  you  ? 

Amy.     O.  don't  !   don't  ! 

Reuben.     Nay,  it's  not  likely;  but  suppose  I  was  to  choose  another 

{>ct  —  to  find  some  other  little  face  that  would  make  me  happier  to 
ook  on  than  my  Amy's  ? 

Amy.     That  made  you  happier  ! 

Reuben.     Suppose   o. 

Amy.     If  it  did  make  you  happier 

Reuben.     Well,  go  on,  darling. 

Amy.     O,  that  would  hurt  me  ;  but  —  but 

Reuben.     Y<  ,  yes  ! 

Amy.  (Stifling  her  sobs.)  I  should  pray  to  God  ;  I  should  try  to 
think  how  good  you  had  been  to  mi-,  how  you  ought  to  be  happy. 
And  if — if  another  pet  made  yon  so,  I  should  give  you  up,  and 
try  —  to  love  her  for  your  sake.     (She  iceeps  silently,  and  covers  her 

face  With  her  ha  ml:;.  ) 

/  her  fervently.)     ('<<'l   bless  you,  darling!     No 
fear!    no   fear!     Now  go   play;    I  must  have  some  talk  \\ith   aunt 
Lily.     (Leads  her  lo  the  door ;  Amv  goes  out,  C.  D.  L.  H. ;  Reuben  then 
2* 


18  A    HAUD    STRUGGLE.  [ACT   I. 

approaches  Lilian.)     Are  you  well  enough,  Lilian,  to  have  a  short 
talk  with  me  alone  ? 

Mr.  Trevor.  (Sharply.)  No,  she's  not.  (Comes  vp  to  Reuben, 
and  speaks  to  him  apart.)  Forgive  me,  Reuben  ;  but  she's  really  ill. 
For  all  she's  so  kind  and  does  her  best,  it's  plain  she  takes  no  interest 
in  any  thing. 

Lilian.  (Rising,  and  coming  to  them-')  Father,  I  am  well  enough 
to  talk  with  Reuben.     I  wi«h  it ;  I  must. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Well,  thou  knows  best,  Lily  ;  but  I  maun't  have  thee 
overset  or  flurried.  —  (Aside.)  She  droops  just  as  she  did  before  she 
went  abroad.  And  such  grand  things  as  I  was  planning  for  her  ! 
Ah,  perhaps  that's  it.  I've  been  proud  and  foolish.  "What  if  this 
should  be  for —  for  a  punishment !  —  (To  Reuben.)  Be  very  tender 
of  her.     She's  all  that  reminds  me  of  her  mother !     (Exit.  c.  d.  l.  ii.) 

Lilian.  Now,  Reuben,  you  must  tell  me  all.  There  has  been  no 
quarrel  ? 

Reuben.  No,  Lilian  ;  rest  content  about  that.  But  you  mustn't 
stand,  (he  places  a  chair  and  footstool  for  her;)  there's  a  breeze  getting 
up.  (Envelops  her  in  her  shawl;  then  seats  himself  by  her  side.)  Lily, 
I've  something  to  say  to  you. 

Lilian.     Yes,  Reuben. 

Reuben.  There  have  been  a  good  many  changes  in  this  year  and 
more  since  you  left  us.  You're  changed  a  bit  yourself.  The  girl's 
look  is  gone  from  you,  Lily. 

Lilian.     Yes  ;  I'm  a  woman. 

Reuben.  We're  always  changing,  I  suppose.  The  games  we  played 
at  when  children  don't  amuse  us  now.  Our  tastes  change ;  our 
likings  change. 

Lilian.     As  we  grow  older. 

Reuben.  It's  what  we  must  look  for.  You  wouldn't  wonder,  then, 
if  I  was  changed,  too  ? 

Lilian.  (After  a  pause.)  You  would  never  change  from  being 
good.      (Gives  him  her  hand.) 

Reuben,  Do  you  know  I've  often  thought  of  that  book  you  were 
so  fond  of:  (Draws  forth  the  book  produced  in  first  scene,  and  shows 
it  to  her.)  I  often  think  of  those  young  folks  in  the  story  who  were 
engaged  to  each  other,  like  you  and  me.  Don't  tremble  so,  or  I  can't 
goon. 

Lilian.     (Tn  a  whisper.)     What  about  them  ? 

Reuben.  Well,  you  see,  the}-  didn't  know  their  own  minds  until 
they  got  separated.  Then  they  both  found  that  what  they  thought 
love,  was  —  a  mistake. 

Lilian.  O,  Reuben  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  (He  remains  silent.) 
Have  pity  on  me  —  you  don't  know  what  hangs  on  it.  You  don't  — 
you  can't  mean  that  you're  changed  to  me  ? 

Reuben.  {Springing  from  the  chair,  throwing  up  his  hands,  and 
speakinq  aside.)  She's  afraid  of  it  !  She's  afraid  of  it !  She  loves 
me  still!  (Returning  to  her.)  And  would  Lilian  find  it  hard  if 
Reuben  was  changed  to  her? 

Lilian.  (After  a  short  pause,  and  turning  away  her  face.)  Very 
hard,  if  he  thought  ill  of  her. 


SCENE    II.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  19 

Reuben.  That's  no  answer.  Would  it  cost  you  much  to  think  I 
was  changed  r 

Lilian.     I  cannot  hear  this  ! 

Reuben.  (Smiling.)  You  can't  hear  to  think  so,  eh  ?  Is  that  it  ? 
Silent?  Nay,  a  word  will  do  —  a  smile.  (In  an  altered  tone,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.)  Lily,  I've  been  honest  with  you  all 
my  life.     You'll  speak  to  me  truly  ?     What  can't  yrou  bear  ? 

Lilian.     To  give  you  pain.     I  would  rather  die. 

Reuben.  Do  you  know  any  thing,  then,  that  would  give  me  pain 
if  I  knew  it  too  r 

Lilian.     Ilcul.cn  !  Reuben  !  this  is  torture  ! 

Reuben.  Be  calm.  It's  only  a  word,  and  it  must  come.  When 
we  two  kneel  together  in  the  church  —  when  you  take  the  vow  that 
can't  be  unsaid  —  the  vow  of  heart's  love  till  death  and  after 

Lilian.  (Starting  up.)  Spare  me,  spare  me  !  I'm  very  wretched  ! 
(She  is  about  to  sink  at  his  knees  ;  but  he  prevents  her.) 

Reuben.     My  poor  child  ! 

Lilian.  Reuben,  I  must  speak  now.  I  was  so  young  —  I  had 
seen  no  one  but  you.  I  had  not  dreamed  that  there  was  another 
feeling —  a  master  feeling,  different  from  a  sister's  love  —  one  that  is 
not  merely  affection,  but  part  of  one's  self.  And  it  came  so  unper- 
ceived ;  it  dawned  on  me  so  softly,  rose  so  gradually,  that  it  was  high 
up,  quickening  every  pulse,  mingling  with  every  breath,  steeping  all 
life  in  brightness,  before  I  knew  its  power,  before  I  felt  that  when  that 
light  was  blotted  out  the  whole  world  would  be  darkness. 

Reuben.     Well;  and  then  r 

Liian.  Then  came  misery.  I  had  not  been  willingly  guilty  ;  hut 
the  thought  of  your  great  goodness  haunted  me  like  remorse.  I  strove 
to  break  the  spell,  and  tied.  13ut  I  could  not  fly  from  myself.  And 
now,  Reuben,  that  you  have  made  me  see  the  truth,  I  must  go  on. 
Spite  of  all,  the  fatal  power  still  conquers.  And  O,  if  I  once  sinned 
in  yielding  my  love  to  another,  I  shrink  from  a  sin  yet  darker  !  I 
cannot,  dare  not  take  a  false  vow  to  Heaven,  and  betray  the  trust  of 
your  noble  heart.     (She  sinks  at  his  feet.) 

Reuben.     (  Haising  her.)     Poor  child  !  poor  child  ! 

Lilian.     What !     Can  you  forgive  me  ? 

Reuben.  Forgive  thee  !  forgive  thee !  (Pressing  his  lips  tenderly 
on  her  forehead.)  I  partly  guessed  it.  You  sec,  by  my  calmness,  I 
was  prepared  for  it.     (yl  pause.)     And  you!  can  you  bear  a  surprise  ? 

Lilian.     What  can  I  not  bear,  after  this  ? 

Reuben.  Then  leave  me  a  little  while  ;  take  a  turn  in  the  garden  ; 
take  the  left  path,  to  the  shrubbery.  Don't  ask  why  ;  I  may  perhaps 
join  you  soon.  (Folds  shawl  round  her  head.)  The  path  to  the 
shrubbery  !  remember ! 

Lilian.  (Kissing  his  hand  reverently.)  Bless  you  !  (He  leads  her 
to  window,  c,  and  watches  her  in  silence  till  she  disappears  in  the  walk.) 

Reuben.  (Advancing  slowly  to  front.)  I  know  the  worst  !  (Sinks 
into  a  chair.)  This  is  no  longer  a  home  for  me.  Soon,  as  she  passed 
just  now  from  me  down  the  walk,  she'll  pass  from  me  forever.  I  shall 
see  her  no  more.  Not  see  her  !  O,  yes  ;  see  her  always.  In  strange 
lands  she'll  flit  before  my  eyes  —  my  own  little  playmate,  with  her 


20  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  [ACT    I. 

Straw  hat  and  bright  curls,  her  -white  frock,  and  the  blue  sash  that  I 
used  to  tie  for  her.  I  shall  see  her  pattering  by  me  as  when  we 
plucked  the  spring  primroses.  I  shall  see  the  young  girl,  with  the 
warm  flush  on  her  check,  as  when  I  rode  beside  her  pony.  I  shall 
see  her  as  to-  day,  with  her  graceful  movements,  and  her  soft,  sad  face  ; 
and  I  shall  see  —  ah,  there's  comfort !  —  I  shall  see  forever  the  smile 
with  which  she  blessed  me  !  Yes ;  while  I  live,  the  day  will  never 
come  that  I  shall  not  see  Lilian.  (He  bursts  into  tears ;  then  leans  back 
quietly  in  the  chair.) 

Enter  Amy,  bounding  in. 

Amy.  O,  you're  \\svc,  Reuben  !  You  promised  me  a  walk,  sir. 
Not  a  word  !  O,  some  bad  magician  has  put  him  to  sleep,  and  I  shall 
be  the  good  fairy  to  rouse  him  !  "Wake,  sleeper,  wake  !  (She  play- 
fully raises  his  arm,  which  falls  listlessly  to  his  side.)  Reuben,  what's 
the  matter  ?     It's  Amy  ;  your  pet,  Amy. 

Reuben.  (Holds  her  at  arm's  length,  gazes  on  her  wistfully,  then 
strains  her  to  him.)     Yes,  Amy's  still  mine. 

Amy.     She'll  never  leave  you  ;  and  Aunt  Lilian 

Reuben.  Aunt  Lilian  !  {After  a  short  struggle.)  I've  learned 
Amy's  lesson.  Aunt  Lilian  goes  away  from  us  —  goes  where  she'll 
be  happy. 

Amy.     "What !     And  leaves  you 

Reuben.  Not  wretched.  Amy,  I  might  have  been  a  villain,  and 
broken  her  heart.  I've  done  right ;  I've  saved  her.  (Rises.)  No, 
not  wretched ! 

Enter  Lilian  and  Fergus,  followed  by  Mr.  Trevor,  c.  d.  r.  h. 

Lilian.     Reuben,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Reuben.  (Takes  the  hand  of  Fergus,  places  it  in  Lilian's,  and 
addresses  Mr.  Trevor.)  This  is  Fergus  Graham,  Lilian's  preserver, 
lie  loves  her.     Your  blessing  for  thim.     That  alone  will  cure  her. 

Mr.  Trevor.  Fergus  Graham  !  He  loves  her  !  I  see.  Reuben, 
you're  a  noble  fellow.  (Fergus  silently  clasps  Reuben's  hand.  Reu- 
ben walks  apart ;  Lilian  follows  him.) 

Lilian.  (Laying  her  hand  softly  on  his  arm.)  My  own  brother  ! 
(Mr.  Trevor.  Fergus,  and  Amy  approach  them.) 

Reuben.  You're  all  very  kind  to  me.  I  shall  think  of  you  often 
when  I'm  far  away.  For  I  go  to  a  land  that  asks  for  a  man's  pith 
and  sinew  ;  where  there  are  broad  forests  to  be  cleared,  wide  prairies 
to  roam. 

Mr.  Trevor.     No,  my  lad,  I  can't  lose  you. 

Reuben.     Thank  you  ;  but  my  mind's  made  up. 

Lilian.     (Imploringly.)     For  my  sake  ! 

Fergus.     For  our  sake  ! 

Reuben.    I  shall  think  always  that  you  wished  it ;  but (Shakes 

his  head  in  dissent.) 

Amy.  (Rushing  forward,  and  grasping  the  skirts  of  his  coat.)  Reu- 
ben, Reuben  !  will  you  leave  your  own  Amy  ? 


BCENE    HI.]  A    HARD    STRUGGLE.  21 

Reuben.  {Much  moved,  and  regarding  her  fixedly.)  Amy,  Amy  ! 
pet,  darling,  comfort !  O,  I  didn't  guess  till  now  the  hold  she  had  on 
me.  Leave  her  !  Heaven,  that  denies  me  a  wile's  love,  has  perhap3 
given  me  its  next  blessing  in  the  pure  love  of  a  child.  It's  a  hard 
struggle  ;  but  with  a  clear  conscience  and  her  dear  help,  I  shall  get 
through,  I  shall  get  through.  {Cheerfully.')  Yes,  Amy  ;  I  stay  for 
thee!     {He  sinks  into  a  chair,  and  embraces  her  fondly.) 


SITUATIONS. 

Trevor.      Amy,  kneeling.      Reuben,  in  chair.      Lilian.     Fergus. 

Curtain* 


NO.  CCCXXVIII. 

FRENCH'S      STANDARD     DRAMA 

®ljc    feting    (Sbiiiou. 


PURE  GOLD: 


A  PLAY,  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 


BY  WESTLAND  MARSTON,  ESQ. 


TO  WHICH   ARE   ADDED 


A.  description  of  the  Costume — Cast  of  the  Characters — Entrances  and  Exits- 
Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and 
the  whole  of  the  Stage  Business. 


AS  NOW  PERFORMED  AT  THE  PRINCIPAL  ENGLISH 
AND   AMERICAN  THEATRES. 


NEW  YORK: 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  PUBLISHER, 

122  Nassau  Stjjeet,  (Up  Status.) 


[CAST  OF  CHARACTERS-PURE  GOLD.] 


Sadler's  Wells,  Wallack's, 

London,  1SG3.  New  York,  18G4. 

Frank  Rochfvrd   [an  Artist — 

Langley's  Nephew] Mr.  Henry  Marsto.  .Mr.  Lester  Wallack. 

Lancia  [a  Refugee] Mr.  W.  D.  Gresham .  Mr.  Charles  Fisher. 

Brackenbury  [a  Poor  Gent.] .  .Mi.  T.  B.  Bennett..  .Mr.  Mark  Smith. 

Sir  Gerard  Fane,  Bart Mr.  Edmund  Phelps  Mr.  W.  11.  Floyd. 

Gilbert  Brackenbury  [his  Sou]  .  Mr.  David  II.  Jones  Mr    Daly. 

Langley  [a  Civil  Engineer] .  .  .  Mr.  Perfit Mr.  Norton. 

Morley  [a  London  Merchant]  .Mr.  A.  Baildon  .  . .  .Mr.  Moore. 

1st  Officer  of  Police Mr.  Mortimer Mr.  Brown. 

2d  ditto.  .' Mr.  Clifton Mr.  Bryson. 

3d  ditto Mr.  A.  Vivian 

Rinaldo,       j        Political       (Mr.  E.  H.  Brooke  j  Mr.  Pope,  ■ 
De  I'Fpine,  \    Emissaries,     j  Mr.  Hastings,         j  Mr.  Parkes. 

Jackson  [a  Lodge  Keeper] ....  Mr.  A.  Denial Mr.  Williamsou. 

Fritz Mjss  Rogers 

Schmidt Mr.  Geo.  Vinning. . 

Neuner  [Landlord  of  an  Hotel 

at  Baden] Mr.  Robinson Mr.  James. 

Waiters,  Attendants,  &{C.,  i\c. 

Miss  Fortescue  [Friend  of  Mrs. 

Rochford Mrs.  B.  White Mrs.  Hoey. 

Evelyn  Rochford Miss  Marriott Miss  M.  Henriques 

Mrs.  Rochford  [Roch.'s  Wife. Miss  Mandlebert. .  ..Mrs.  Jennings. 


Time — 1st  Act,  1844.    An  interval  of  about  Fifteen  Years  is  supposed  to  elapse 
etween  the  First  and  Second  Acts. 


RK;  A'ilVE  POSITIONS,  EXITS,  &c. 

R.,  means  Right;  L.,  Left ;  R.  H.,  Right  Hand,  L.  H.,  Left 
Hand  ;  C,  Centre ;  S.  E.,  (or  2d  E  ,)  Second  Entrance  ;  U.  E.,  Up- 
per Entrance  ;  M.  D.,  Middle  Door  ;  F.,  the  Flat ;  D.  F,  Door  in 
Flat ;  R.  C,  Right  of  Centre  ;  L.  C.  Left  of  Centre. 

R  B.C.  C.  L.C.  L 

*m.'  The  reader  is  supposed  to  bo  upon  the  Stage,  facing  the  audienca. 


PURE    GOLD 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  FIRST.-  -Front  of  the  Conversations  Haus  at  Baden  Baden.  Chairs, 
tables  ;  Visitors  of  both  sexes  conversing,  or  reading  the  Journals. — Wait- 
ers are  engage  !  in  serving  coffee,  ices,  fyc. ,  Sfc.  Music,  which  ceases  shorl- 
Ig  after  the  curtain  rises,  heard  from  the  Conversation?  Haus. 

ErUer  Sir  Gerard  Fane  [a  going  exquisite  of  twenty,]  n.  u.  v..,  smoldng ; 
with  Aim  Mr.  Brackendury,  about  fifty,  and  slightly  rheum .itic. 

Sir  G.  And  so  this  is  your  famous  Baden  Baden,  eh,  Mr. — Mr. 
Brackenstone  ? 

Brack.  Brackenbury,  pardon  me,  Sir  Gerard  ;  not  Brackenstone.  I 
think  I  remarked  to  you  yesterday  that  I  belong  to  the  Baronial 
House  of  Brackenbury,  that  is,  it  was  Baronial  some  years  ago  ; 
whose  family  scat  is,  or  rather  was  some  years  ago,  Brackenbury 
Tower  in  Kent.  [All  this  delivered  icith  an  effort  at  carelessness. 

Sir  G.  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember.  [Aside.]  How  this  worthy  bore  sticks 
to  me  ?  What  a  fossil  it  is,  with  its  old  family  notions  ;  as  lively  as 
my  great  grandfather  in  hair  powder,  and  as  fast  as  his  coach  and  six. 

Brack.  Yes,  Sir  Gerard  ;  we  lost  the  Brackenbury  title  in  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses  ;  and  our  estates — the  tower  included — were  confiscated 
at  the  same  time. 

Sir  G.   Well,  that  is,  indeed,  some  years  ago. 

Brack.  But  the  Crown  can't  take  away  a  man's  ancestors,  sir.  We 
can  still  say  "Fuimus." — The  Brackenburys  belong  to  the  past. 

Sir  G.  [Aside — yawning.]  I  wish  that  could  be  said  of  their  present 
representative. 

Brack.  And  let  me  say,  my  young  friend,  though  fortunes  have 
changed  with  us,  we  are  still  a  proud  race ;  for  instance,  we  never 
demean  ourselves  by  low  marriages — the  late  Mrs.  Brackenbury,  my 
lamented  wife,  traced  her  descent  to  the  noble  Irish  house  of  the 
O'Kilmacows  ;  my  only  son,  now  at  school  in  England,  is,  according 
to  authentic  portraits,  a  juvenile  image  of  the  last  Baron  Bracken- 
bury, barring  his  lordship's  red  hair  ;  though,  to  be  sure  the  bey  has 
a  touch  of  the  O'Kilmacow  family  about  the  nose. 

Sir  G.  What  an  interesting  peculiarity  ! 

Brack.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  still  live  in  sight  of  Brackenbury 
Tower.     The  supporters  of  our  shield  may  still  be  seen  over  the  lodge 


4  PURE   GOLD. 

• 

gates  ;  but  in  such  decay,  sir  !     You  could  never  guess  they  were  the 
old  family  boars. 

Sir  G.  Couldn't  I?  [Aside.]  On  the  contiary,  that  -would  have 
been  my  very  first  conjecture. 

Brack.  By  the  way,  my  little  box  in  Kent  is  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  house  of  my  youug  friend,  Miss  Fortescue,  the  rich  heiress, 
you  know,  now  at  Baden. 

Sir  G.  You  don't  say  so  ?  What,  that  dashing  girl  who  pretends 
to  despise  our  whole  sex  ?     You  must  introduce  me  to  her  !* 

Brack.  Introduce  you  ? 

Sir  G.  Decidedly,  my  friend  ;  young  Malcolm,  of  the  Guards  press- 
ed her  to  dance  last  night,  and  got  a  rebuff  that  floored  him.  Now 
I've  made  a  bet  with  Malcolm,  that  she  shall  polka  with  me  thrice  in 
one  night  before  a  week's  out.     You  must  introduce  me  ! 

Brack.  Impossible  !  she  has  a  particular  horror  of  very  young  mpn. 

Sir  G.  All  the  better — I  like  difficult  women  !  Where's  the  sport 
if  the  game  won't  run  ? 

Brack.  Game  !  sport,  Sir  Gerard  !  this  is  strange  language — what 
can  you  know  about  women  ? 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  Was  there  ever  such  a  piece  of  antiquity — does  he 
suppose  that  I've  reached  my  time  of  life,  and  gained  no  experience 
of  the  sex  ?     [Aloud.]     Come,  I'll  take  no  denial: 

Brack.  [Aside.]  I  don't  run  much  risk — she  won't  look  at  him 
twice — and  she'll  see  that  I  consort  with  men  of  my  own  class 
abroad,  though  too  poor  to  do  so  at  home. 

Sir  G.  Now's  the  time,  my  good  fellow — I  saw  her  ten  minutes 
since  at  one  of  the  little  shops  in  the  avenue. 

[Taking  Brackenbury's  arm  and  hurrying  him  off. 

Brack.  Stop  !  stop  !  sir.     Confound  it  what  a  twinge. 

Sir  G.  Beg  pardon — I  forgot  your  rheumatism. 

Brack.  [Going  of  with  him  sknoly.]  Gout,  sir  !  gout !  Gout  is  the  he- 
reditary complaint  of  the  Brackenburys. 

Sir  G.  What  a  pity  it  wasn't  confiscated  with  the  other  family 
property,  in  the  Wars  of  the  Boses. 

As  they  are  going  E,  2  e.  enter  Langley,  Frank  Rochford,  and  Mrs. 
Rochford — Sir  Gerard  bows  to  Mrs.  Rochford  and  goes  out  with 
Brackenbury,  r.  v.  e. 

Roch.  [l.]  Lucy,  who  was  it  that  bowed  to  you  ? 

Mrs.  R.  [a]  Oh,  Sir  Gerard  Fane,  who  sat  with  me  at  the  table 
d'hote. 

Roch.  [l]  Avoid  him,  dear  Lucy  ;  though  so  young,  he's  one 
whose  notice  of  a  woman  insults  her. 

Mrs.  R.  Indeed  !  who  told  you  so  ? 

Roch.  A  new  acquaintance,  but  one  whom  I  already  respect  ;  the 
Count  Manoli ! 

Mrs.  R.  Very  well,  Frank,  I  am  warned. 

Lang,  [r.]  Here,  waiters  ;  chairs,  and  a  table — coffee  ! 
I 


PURE   GOLD.  6 

Waiter.  Directly,  sir. 

He  places  chairs  and  a  table  down  stage   i.,  apart  from  the  company,  then 
serves  coffee  ;  Langley,  Rochford  and  Mns.  It.  sit. 

Langley.  [l.]  Well,  Frank,  Lucy  and  I  were  lucky  to  fall  in  with 
you.  You  might  have  spared  a  little  more  time  to  an  old  fellow 
about  to  take  his  leave. 

Roch.  [e.  of  table.]  True  dear  uncle  ;  hut  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was 
so  late  ;  a  pretty  scene  in  the  forest  caught  my  eye,  and  I  stayed  to 
sketch  it.  See.  [Producing  his  sketch  book.]  A  mother  at  the  door  of  a 
woodland  cottage,  with  a  toddling  lassie  of  four  holding  by  her 
finger.  [Mbs.  R.  and  Langley  examine  the  sketch. 

Lang.  My  dear  Lucy,  you  should  really  forbid  these  lonely  rambles; 
the  rascals  always  falling  in  with  pretty  faces.  Look,  now,  at  this 
peasant  woman,  with  her  coquettish  air  and  limber  figure. 

Mrs.  R.  [a]  Nay,  uncle  Langley,  there's  an  antidote  to  all  my 
jealously  in  the  child.  As  usual,  Frank  has  given  her  the  features, 
the  height,  the  very  expression  of  our  dear  little  Evelyn.  I  think 
if  he  were  to  paint  a  Hottentot  child,  she  would  be  sure  to  turn  out 
like  our  darling  at  home. 

Rock.  There  she  goes,  uncle  !  How  these  mothers  do  rave  about 
their  Little  plagues  in  pinafores  ! 

Mrs.  R.  And  are  fathers  one  bit  better,  sir  ?  Would  you  believe 
now,  uncle  Langley,  I  can  hardly  get  a  sight  of  the  miniature  he 
took  of  Evelyn  ?  the  miser  keeps  it  all  to  himself  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket. 

Rock.  A  humane  precaution,  my  dear,  tc-  prevent  you  from  crying 
over  it.  • 

Mrs.  R.  [Holding  up  her  parasol  playfully.]  Sir,  if  there  were  not 
company  present,  J  would  rap  your  knuckles  severely.  My  precious 
Evelyn  !  at  times  I  really  could  cry,  it  seems  so  unfeeling  to  have 
left  her  in  London,,  though  I  am  sure  grandmama  will  take  every 
care  of  her.  This  holiday  excursion  has  been  very  unpleasant, 
uncle.  Frank  wanted  a  change,  and  we've  very  much  enjoyed  see- 
ing you  on  your  way  to  Italy.  But,  oh,  what  joy  the  going  home 
will  be  ! 

Lang  Well,  as  I  start  in  an  hour  for  Strasbourg,  provided  that 
confounded  Heridrick  sends  the  remittances  in  time — why  shouldn't 
you  go  back  to  morrow  ? 

Roch.  We  shall  be  very  sorry  to  part  with  you,  uncle  ;  but  you'll 
forgive  a  mother's  impatience. 

Mrs.  R.  And  a  father's,  if  you  please. 

Roch.  Well,  then,  a  father's — I  won't  deny  it. 

Lang.  Ah  !  good  people,  you  have  a  happier  lot  than  a  bachelor 
like  me.  To  think  of  a  man  at  my  years  having  to  leave  England 
for  want  of  work,  and  become  civil  engineer  to  these  projected  rail- 
ways in  Italy  ! 

Mrs  R.  It  is  hard,  dear  uncle.     I  am  sure  we  both  feel  for  you. 


6  PURE   GOLD 

Lang,  I  know  it,  lassie,  and  must  not  complain.  The  hard  bed, 
as  they  say,  is  of  my  own  making.  Like  a  fool,  I  gambled  away  a 
moderate  fortune  at  twenty-five — and  now  at  fifty-five  have  barely 
means  to  pay  my  way  to  the  land  of  my  exile. 

Mrs.  R.  You  deserved  a  better  fate  ;  for  I  am  sure  you  never 
have  touched  a  card  since  I  knew  you. 

Ling.  No  ;  were  I  ever  so  rich,  I  would  never  play  again,  except, 
pephaps.  for  trifling  stakes  and  with  a  cool  head.  .    . 

Roth.  Forgive  me,  uncle  ;  but  should  you  become  as  prosperous  as 
we  wi-h  you,  I  hope  you  would  never  play  moro  — not  even  for 
amusement. 

Ling.  [Laughing.]  We'll  talk  of  that  when  I've  another  fortune  to 
low?.  Waiter,  a  glass  of  Maraschino.  [Rises  and  goes  down  l.  v.]  I 
d  .n't  like  Frank's  playing  the  Mentor  to  me  thus.  I  can't  even 
look  on  at  a  game  of  rouge  et  noir,  but  he's  always  at  iris  heels — why 
if  I  were  to  risk  a  Napoleon  or  two,  I  could  but  lose  them. 

Waiter.    [Bringing  Maraschino.]  The  liqueur,  which  monsieur  ordered. 

Lung.  [Drinking  Miraschino and 'giving  money. .]  There,  that  pays  for  all. 
[Waiter  retires,  Lang  ley  returns  to  Mn.  and  Mrs.  Rocuford.]  By  the 
way,  Frank,  I'm  much  annoyed  that  old  Hendrick,  of  Frankfort, 
has  not  yet  sent  the  money  for  those  jewels  which  we  left  with  him. 
I  can't  start  till  I  get  the  remittance. 

Roch.  About  fifty  pounds  Fnglish,  is  it  not  ?  six  hundred  florins. 

Lang.  Yes,  that  was  his  last  offer,  which  I  wrote  to  accept.  The 
money  should  have  reached  me  last  night. 

Roch.  You  believe  liim  honest  ? 

Lang.  Oh  yes,  besides  I  have  his  receipt  for  the  jewels.  I  dealt 
with  him  when  I  was  a  young  spendthrift,  and  thought  he  would 
give  more  than  I  should  get  in  London  ; — yes,  the  rascal  has  now  all 
my  family  relics  except  this  diamond  ring  of  rny  poor  father's. 
[Shotting  a  diimond  ring  which  he  wears.]  That,  I  would  not  part  with. 

Roch.  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  The  Frankfort  diligence  is  just  due — it 
might  be  well  for  you  to  go  to  the  office  in  case  the  jeweler  or  his 
clerk  should  arrive. 

Lang.  I  wish  you  could  go  for  me,  Frank — do,  there's  a  deal-  fellow. 

Roch.  Suppose  we  both  go  ? 

Lang.  No  ;  I  want  a  farewell  gossip  with  Lucy. 

Roch.  Very  well,  uncle — I'llgo.  Have  you  the  receipt  for  the  jewels? 

Lang.  Yes,  and  another  for  the  money  already  prepared.  [Pro- 
duces them  front  a  pocket-book  and  gives  them  to  Rochford  ]  There  will  be 
no  difficulty,  Frank;  Hendrick  and  his  clerk  both  know  you. 

Roch.  I'll  start  at  once.  I  shall  find  you  either  here  or  at  the 
hotel  ?  .  •      [Going. 

Lang.  Yes.  at  the  hotel.  Stop,  Frank,  I  declare  I  had  forgotten 
my  pistols  ;  just  call  at  the  gunsmith's  for  the  brace  you  left  me  to 
be  repaired. ;  I  may  have  to  travel  in  queer  places,  where  I  should 
miss  such  trusty  friends.  And  come  back  soon — no  more  strolls  in 
the  wood  in  search  of  interesting  young  mothers. 


ruiiK  GOLD.  7 

Roch.  Certainly  not;  when  T  want  a  model  of  very  fond  foolish 
maternity  I  have  always  Lucy  fur  a  sitter. 

Mrs.  R.  Beware.  Frank!  [Holding  vp  tier  .parasol  significantly.]  Re- 
member there  will  be  no  one  to  protect  you  at  the  hotel. 

[Rociiford  goes  out,  r.  u.  E. 

Lang.  [Aside.]  I  feel  my  own  master  again  now  he's  gone.  I'll 
manage  to  get  quit  of  Lucy,  and  just  look  in  at  the  rouge  el- voir 
table,  to  see  how  life  goes.  Lucy,  are  not  those  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton,  whose  acquaintance  -we  made  yesterday  ?  Let  me  place  you  un- 
der their  care  for  a  few  minutes.     I  have  an  enquiry  or  two  to  make. 

Mrs.  R.   [Rising.']  Very  well,  uncle,  but  you'll  not  be  long  ? 

Laiig.  Not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  [They  advance  to  another 
table  a  Utile  behind.]  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Merton,  may  I  entrust  Mrs. 
Roch  ford  to  you  for  a  short  time  ? 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton  at  table,  r. — Langley  and  Mrs.  M.  exchange  salu- 
tations— Mrs.  R.  sits — Langley  boios  and  retires,  and  shortly  afterwards 
enters  Conversations  Ham,  which  Visitors  occasionally  enter  and  quit  till 
end  of  scene — Enter  Miss  Fortescue,  Sir  Gerard  and  Brackenbury, 
r.  u.  e. — Miss  Fortescue's  entrance  produces  a  sensation  in  the  company. 

Sir  G.  [Smoking.]  Nay,  on  my  honor,  Miss  Fortescue,  you  are  too 
severe  ;  if  you  could  only  guess,  now,  what  a  miracle  you  have  ac- 
complished  

Miss  F.   [Aside.]  This  begins  to  be  amusing.     In  what  way,  pray  ? 

Sir  G.  Five  minutes  since  I  was  bored  to  death  with  Baden — 
thought  I  had  never  seen  a  slower  place 

Miss  F.  A  cruel  sentence.     Poor  Baden  ! 

Sir  G.  Nay,  that  was  my  opinion  ;  I  now  find  the  place  enchant- 
ing— I  have  met  you  ! 

Miss  F.  You  do  credit  to  your  bringing  up.     At  what  school? 

Sir  G.  Harrow  !  Harrow  ! 

Miss-  F.  When  do  you  go  back  there  ? 

Sir  G.  Go  back?  On  my  life,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me. 

Miss  F.  Oh,  you  don't  return  then  ? 

Sir  G.  Return  ?  I  was  talking  of  Harrow  School ! 

Miss  F.  So  was  I.  I  fear  the  fine  old  institution  of  the  whipping 
block  is  out  of  date  there 

Sir  G.  Madam. 

Miss  F.  Or  the  school  would  never  turn  out  affected  mannikins, 
who  puff  their  cigars  in  a  lady's  face,  and  who  emit  from  their 
mouths  two  offensive  things  at  once,  their  compliments  and  their 
smoke.  [Crosses,  l. 

Sir  G.  Confound  her  impudence !  A  deuced  fine  girl  though — a 
filly  with  good  action,  but  wants  more  breaking  in. 

[He  turns  aicay,  and  enters  into  Conversations  Haus. 

Brack.  Capital !  You  put  him  down  most  properly,  dear  Miss  For- 
tescue ;  a  young  puppy  scarcely  out  of  his  teens  ;  how  different  must 
be  the  sentiments  of  such  a  coxcomb,  from  the  tried  devotion  of  a 


H  POM  QOI.D 

rn-i :•  1 1 1 •< >r   liko   me,      All  !    If   ymi    WOUld    only    <-i i< ■< »i i r:i •  ■  ••    nn:    with    n 

•mile 

>/»  /'  on  my  word,  i  don't  know  any  one  at  whom  I  smile  m> 
oil, I,. 

i »,.  bo  i  •  - 1 i« « 1 1 m.    if  yon  doubt  my ;  Incodty,  set  use  any  task, 
hit   evci  hard   to  prove  It. 

I/-  /.  Very  well  [Dropping  ha  hindkercJiie/.]  My  handkerchief's 
dropped  :  pick  ii  up 

Brack     |  fie  Utitiny  |   SVhert  1 1  It  ' 

Mi     r     i  hero   ;'t  my  foot 

Uracil     |  \ftei  miking  tin  uokuntnl  attempt  to  stoop  |  The  troth  Is,  I  am 
just  now   nn  ,-i  In ■  1 1  mi  1 1  'Miii.    tin!  in  i,  iii  i  n  i )  i  'in  |  tin  in  i, ,,(  Hi,-  liruoh 
ettburys     I  eari'l  very  conveniently  stoop, 

i//  /■  \i,i  '  then  yon  II  never  do  for  me  I  am  romantic 
eaoogh  to  desire  a  lovei  whocan,  at  lout,  throw  himseil  -ii  mj  feet. 
|,'.\,  bukit  up  the  fotntllecrr.hv.)  |  forgive  inu  neighbor;  bnt  when  an  el< 
iimiy  gentleman  for^cti  tne  gravity  of  ago,  a  girl  of  nineteen  may 
bo  pnrdonod  ii  she  I  '<  »i  ifcts  Its  did  mi, 

Uracil     \ ■-,< i,  tgo  I  why  I'm  only  fifty    h  mere  boy  comparatively 

I  want  a  dosscn  years  of  the  time  who n  are  made 

appointed  to  a  (lug  siii|>. 

i/'  /-'.  True ;  i>ut  love  and  war  are  distinct  services;  and  men 
nn  often  promoted  In  the  latter,  when  they  would  be  superannuated 
in  the  former,     [Aside,  obeerving  Mrs.  Rooeutobd.]    Surely,  I  know 

flint  liirn. 

Brad  \  [tide  \  Superannuated  I  I  beliove  she's  laughing  at  mo. 
in  not  waste  another  thought  pn  her,  I'll  start  for  England  l>y 
the  Doxt  miiir  paste  Laugh  at  a  Brackenbury  oonneoted  with  the 
O'KilmacOws  1    She  has  lost  Aw  chance,  I /■'"',  a,  s.  i, 

Ui u  /'.  | . [iioiinriiii/  to  Muh.  liocuiiniii  |  It u she.   My  dear  Lucy  ! 

Mrs.  It-  Helen  Portesouel   My  own  dear  Helen  I    [They  ehake  hands 

Mas   Etooni bou ■■■■  to  the  Mibtons,  and  advanceewUh  Miss  IFobim* 

cos  to  titbit,  down  i...  where  they  all  sit. 

Mir.  /■'  i,n,  y,  inv  dearest  companion,  my  other  self  I  wii.it  a 
budget  we  have  to  •  i  >  ouss  I  Ifou  know  after  my  poor  father's  death 
I  was  sent  to  franco.  ?ou  were  from  England  when  I  returned  ;  so, 
positively,  we  have  not  metslnoc  you  committed  that  awful  piece  of 
treachery. 

i/,  i   /,'    i  } 

Mits  I'.  Wiih  not  my  father  your  guardian?  Did  we  not  iiv<-  for 
years  under  the  same  roof,  with  but  one  heart  betwoen  os'f  Wore 
wo  not  sisters  in  "ii  but  name  1  I  could  have  loved  no  sister  afore  ; 
.'  1 1 1 1 1  yet  you  must  marry  unci  desert  mo.  Will,  what  is  the  man  like? 

i// .■:   /.'    I  only  wish  Nature  had  made  liin  double  for  your  sake. 

\ii  i  /'.  Thank  you,  my  dear  It's  quite  as  well  that  Mature  spared 
herself  the  trouble.     Now  do  come  with  me  to  my  apartments. 

Mrs    /.'   I  must  go  to  the  hotel  first  to  moet  my  husband 

Mist  /■'.  Innocent  dove  f  Let  Its  mate  coo  alone  for  awhile  ;  you'll 
in-  the  more  welcome  t<>  the  nest    and  1  want  yon  irii  to  Dsyseli. 


viiRK  ooi.n.  U 

Mrs.  R,  Well,  for  one  quarter  of  an  hour  l  must,  (hen  return  to  a 
relative  about  to  leave  us. 

Miss.  I''.  You  must,  (ell  ine  all  about  your  little  Kvelyn.  She's  not 
with  you  f 

MH,  ]{.  Ahvs — no  ! 

Sfist  /■■  Whai  a  sigh  I    come  love \Thty  rita 

Mr».   II.    I'm     very     fooKflll ,   Helen  ;    hut    I  have  now  and  then  such 

misgivings  about  my  darling.     If  auythlng  should  happen  to  mo, 

you'll  nut.  fOXget  your  old  friend's  child. 

Mitt  /■'.  \JttHngly  |  When  anything  dots  happen  to  you,  Lucy,  I'll 
he  reasonably  Kind  to  her,  being  a  daughter  ;  hut,  oh,  love,  never 
trust  dm  with  a  hoy  !  I  should  avenge  myself  In  his  person  ©n  all 
his  fortune-hunting  box,  and  If  ho  survived  to  be  a  man    hut  ho 

Q0Ver  would  under  my  discipline. 

Mrs.  Ix.    All,  Helen,  when  you're  a  mother  I         |  Tiny,/,*  <;//',  i,.  u.  g| 

Re  enter  EtooufOBS,  n.  v.  b. 
Roeh,  Not,  at  the  hotel    not  here!.   What,  oan  hove  become  of 

them  f  I'm  glad,  at  all  events,  that,  I've  got  the  money  lor  the 
jewels,  for  if  my  unele  mean:;  to  start  hy  the  voiturier  to  BtrasbUrg 
there's  no  time  to  lose.  11,'s  at  least,  ;iu  Kiedish  mile  to  the  cab.-i.icl. 
in    the    forest,     from    which  the  voiturier  starts.      Where  can  he  he  r 

lieavim  grant  n<>t,  at  the  gaming  table1 1    I'll  look  In,  though,  to 

make  sure. 

Ait  he  is  about  to  enter  the  Conversations  Haw  La  milky  quits  ii  with 
Jiinai.iio  <nnl  Di  t'EpiNs,  with"  whom  he  is  in  altercation  Sm  Gxba&d 
awl  othtrt  follow  from  the  Convertationi  II  ms  and  groin  around, 

Rinal,    I  say,  sir,  this  lanjj;uap;o  is  an  insult. 

Lltng,  And  I  repeat  sir,  I  was  a  fOOl  to  play  hy  your  advice,  and 
let,  myself  he  deluded  hy  your  confounded  system. 

Rinal,  What  do  you  mean  by  being  deluded  ? 

Lang,  Well,  I  lost  every  time  i  staked. 

Rinal.  What  then?    Had    [  any  Interest  In  your  losses  ?  why  you 

talk  as  if   I  and  the  hank  had  been  in  a  league  to  roh  you. 

Lniiij.  l  never  said  so. 

liiniii.  Vou  insinuated  as  much      Retract  it  I  [Peremptorily;, 

Lang,  I  never  retract  under  a  threat. 

Rinal.  Do  you  mean  that,  I  was  in  collusion  with  the  hank  yes  or 
Do  I  |  Raiting  l>i*  cane. 

Lang,  No  !  though  since  you  raise  your  cane,  I  might  suspect  if. 
There  I  a    Blight  presumption  that  a   man's  a  knave,  when  he  sfoojm 

to  the  argument  of  a  bully. 

Rinal,    A  bully  T 

/>(•/.'/•.)-.    I  Tn  I.AMii.nv.  |    Mon  Pint!  you  are  too  warm,  sir  ! 
Rinal.     A    bully  !       You    English    churl,    I'll     teach    you    polite 
hcsh. 

Dtl'Ep,   Nay,  nay    

[lliNAt.iio  ttruggkt  with  Da  l'Epikx,  and  advances toehatttit  Lxxotat. 


10  PURE  CtfftB* 

Roch.  [Interrupting  him,  c]  Stay,  sir !  I  do  not  know  who  is  in  the 
right  here  ;  but  I  will  permit  no  violence  to  this  gentleman. 

Rinal.  And  who  are  you,  sir,  who  intrude  yourself  into  other  men's 
quarrels  ? 

Roch.  One  who  means  no  offence  ;  but  who  will  save  you  from  the 
shame  of  assaulting  a  man  nearly  twice  your  age. 

Be  VEp.  [Apart  to  Rinaldo.]  Be  cautious,  you  have  reason — re- 
member your  mission. " 

Rinal.  [To  RocuroRD.]  His  years  shall  not  protect  him,  nor  shall  you. 

Roch.  Assault  me  then  ;  it, will  be  more  to  your  credit. 

De  VEp.  [Apart  to  Rinaldo,  and  seizing  his  arm.]  Are  you  mad  ? 
Have  you  not  political  secrets— would  you  draw  on  yourself  the  at- 
tention of  the  police  ? 

Rinal.  True,  true,  I  am  forced  to  be  prudent,  else  I  would  cane 
him  on  the  spot.  [Aloud  to  Langley.]  I  shall  not  lose  sight  of  you, 
sir,  be  sure  of  it. 

De    l'Epine    and  Rinaldo  go    out  l.    1    E.    amidst   the  laughter  of  the 
bystanders. 

Sir  G.  What,  there's  to  be  no  mill  then.  It's  a  regular  sell ;  I 
expected  something  exciting — a  duel  on  the  spot,  or  at  all  events  a 
little  pleasant  assault  and  battery.  Why  should  the  ^ld  fellow 
make  such  a  noise  about  a  few  Napoleons,  when  he  can  afford 
to  sport  such  a  diamond  ring  !  perhaps  it's  glass  though  ! 

He  and  some  of  the  Bystanders  laugh,  and  enter  Conversations  Haus ;  the 
rest,  with  the  exception  of  Rocuford  and  Langley,  disperse. 

Lang.  Now,  Frank,  don't  go  off— no  scolding.  It!s  of  no  use 
to  make  bad  worse.     I've  been  a  fool,  and  I've  paid  the  penalty. 

Roch.  It  is  not  for  me  to  reproach  you,  sir —  have  you  lost 
much  ? 

Lang.  Cleared  out  to  my  last  kreutzer. 

Roch.  But  you  have  still  the  money  for  the  jewels  ?  Hendrick's 
clerk  arrived  by  the  diligence,  and  paid  me  the  amount. 

Lang.  All  gone,  my  dear  fellow,  except  a  few  florins.  You  know 
the  Count  Manoli  ? 

Roch.  Perfectly ;  we  often  speak  together. 

Lang.  Well,  when  I  went  in,  the  table  was  full  ;  so  to  while  away 
the  time,  I  betted  with  the  count  on  the  colors  as  they  turned  up — 
in  brief  I  lost  to  him  nearly  sixty  Napoleons. 

Roch.  Good  heavens  ! 

Lnng.  Again  I  played  and  lost.  As  for  Manoli,  he  behaved  like  a 
gentleman,  and  agreed  to  wait  half  an  hour  for  his  debt.  We  must 
go  at  once  to  his  hotel. 

Roch.  And  you — what  funds  have  you  left  for  your  journey  ? 

Lang  On  my  life,  you  hit  me  hard  there,  Frank — my  few  re- 
maining florins  won't  cover  a  day's  expenses.  How  much  can  you 
lend  me  ? 

Roch.  Only  a  trifle,  I  fear.  I  have  little  more  than  will  take  me 
back  to  England. 


PUKE  GOLD.  11 

t'jang  The  deuce  you  havn't — what's  to  be  done !  It's  quite  vital 
that  I  should  push  on  to  Italy,  where  my  first  official  act  must  he  to 
draw  my  salary  in  advance.  1  tell  you,  Frank,  you  must  lend  me 
what  money  you  can,  and  raise   the  amount  upon  my  diamond  ring. 

Eoch.  Your  father's  ring  ?     A  last  relic ! 

Lang.  My  clear  fellow  there's  no  help  for  it.  I  shall  redeem  it 
from  old  Hendrick  in  a  year ;  come,  there  it  is  !  {Offers  it. 

Jioch.  Nay,  uncle. 

Lang.  Oh,  if  you  think  you  run  any  risk-^ — - 

Rock.  I  don't  mean  that  ! 

Lang.  Take  it  then  ! 

Rock.  Keep  it  till  we  part. 

Lan?.  [Replacing  the  ring  on  his  finger.]  Very  well ;  now  see  what 
yon  can  do  for  me.  You  have  the  money  for  the  jewels  about 
you  ? 

Rock.  Yes!. 

Lang.  Come  then  !  First  to  pay  the  Count ;  then  a  kiss,  and  good- 
bye to  Lucy  ;  and  off  to  the  carbaret  in  the  wood.  You  would 
rather  see  me  in  bad  spirits,  I  know  P.shaw !  it's  only  the  fortune  of 
war. 

Modi.  True,  but  much  depends  on  the  kind  of  war.  There  are 
some  wai's  in  which  even  defeat  is  glorious  ;  others  in  which  success 
has  no  honor,  and  failure  no  consolation. 

Lang.  Here's  a  homily!  Frank,  you  should  have  been  a  parson, 
not  a  painter.     A  parson  1  ha !  ha  !  ha  !  [They  go  out,  i.  v.  E, 


SCENE  SECOND.—  A   Wood.     Moonlight. 
Enter  Theee  Officers  of  Police,  t.  1  e» 

1st.  Off.  You  know  the  Count  Manoli  by  sight,  you  say  ? 

2d  Off.  Yes  ;  I  never  speak  till  I'm  certain.  He  left  his  hotel, 
for  a  short  ride  in  the  forest — that's  strange,  at  this  hour. 

1st  Of.  My  orders,  just  received  are  to  arrest  him  instantly ! 

2d  Off  The  Count  Manoli !  What  has  he  done  ? 

1st  Off.  Leave  that  to  your  betters.  Any  one  starting  by  the  voi- 
turier  to-night  must  pass  this  way. 

M  Off.  It's  the  common  road. 

1st  Off.  You  are  sure  he  was  not  one  of  the  two  men  that  passed  us  ? 

2d  Off.  Positive. 

1st  Off.  There  was  a  lad,  too,  wheeling  an  English  traveler's  bag- 
gage     That  might  be  a  truck,  though.     Voices !     Stand  close ! 

Enter  Langley  and  Rochford,  l.  1  e.,  the  latter  carrying  a  pistol-case. 

1st  Off.  Your  servant,  gentlemen.     May  I  ask  whither  you  are 
bound? 
Lang.  To  the  Black  Eagle.     I  take  the  voiturier,  for  Strasburg. 
1st  Off.   [Apart  to  2d  Officer.]  Do  you  know  them? 
2d. Off.  Neither  of  them  is  our  man. 


12  riJRB  GOLD. 

1st  Off.  [To  Langley.]  So  you  take  the  voiturier — You're  likely  to 
have  the  Count  Manoli  for  a  fellow  traveler,  I  hear. 

Lang.  You  are  mistaken  there,  I  think. 

1st  Off.  Do  you  know  him  ? 

Lang,.  For  a  capital  horseman.  He  spurred  off  but  now  as  if  he 
■were  pursued  by  the  devil  or  the  police. 

1st  Off.  On  which  road  ? 

Lang.  That  to  Frankfort. 

1st  Off.  [Apart  to  others.]  We're  off  the  scent,  1  fear.  [To  Langlky 
and  Rochford.]  Good  night,  gentlemen.  [Crosses  to  l. — to  Langlky. J 
Excuse  me,  that  ring  of  yours  sparkles,  and  may  draw  notice.  This 
neighborhood  is  as  famous  for  sharpers  as  for  princes. 

Lang.  Thanks  for  your  caution.  Good  night. 

1st  Off.  Good  night.  [Officers  ,70  out,  1.  1  k, 

Lang.  Well  reminded,  Frank — here  is  the  ring.  Come,  no  sent-* 
pies,  I've  had  your  money. 

Iioch.  I'm  sorryFm  obliged  to  take  it. 

Lang.  [(Jiving  it."]  There — there — draw  your  glove  over  it.  By  the 
way,  Frank,  there's  something  wrong  about  the  Count  Manoli — I 
had  no  sooner  paid  him  my  debt,  than  he  sprang  to  horse,  and  was 
off  like  the  wind. 

Roch.  His  countrymen  are  impulsive. 

Lang.  And  some  Englishmen  too,  you  think — and  now,  Frank,  go 
back — remember,  Lucy  had  not  returned  when  we  hurried  away — 
she  will  be  anxious  about  you. 

Roch.  But  the  road's  lonely. 

Lang.  There's  a  bright  moon,  and  I  know  every  step — no  fur- 
ther, 1  insist. 

Roch.  Good-bye,  then — God  bless  you — here's  your  pistol-case. 

[Gil  <es  it  to  Lang  lk  y  . 

Lang.  God  bless  you,  dear  Frank.  [They  shake  hands.]  Don't  think 
worse  of  the  old  fellow  than  you  can  help. 

Roch.  Dear  uncle,  only  be  as  good  a  friend  to  yourself,  as  you  have 
ever  been  to  me.  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

Ling.  Now,  George  Langley  a  stout  heart — the  world's  before  you. 
Adieu  !  love  to  Lucy — adieu  !  [lie  goes  out,  it.  1  e. 

Roch.  Adieu !  and  so  we  part — ships  holding  together  on  a  brief 
course,  then  severed  on  a  wide  and  changeful  sea — whether  ever  to 
anchor  again  in  the  same  port,  is  known  but  to  Him  whose  breath 
is  the  impulse  of  our  fate.  Who  comes  here  ?  [Enter  Fritz,  wheeling  a 
truck,  r.'  1  e.]  Stay— stay — you  are  the  lad  who  took  Mr.  Laugley's 
luggage  to  the  cabaret. 

Fritz.  Yes,  he'll  be  quite  in  time,  sir  ;  he  has  a  good  twenty  min- 
utes yet. 

Roch.  Your  pace  is  quicker  than  mine,  my  boy— when  you  reach 
the  hotel,  let  Mrs.  Rochford  know  that  I  shall  be  back  shortly. 

Fritz.  Very  well,  sir. 

Roch.  Don't  fail  now. 

Fritz.  You  may  depend  on  me.  [Exit,  l.  1  e. 

Rock.  It  was  hardly  kind  of  me  to  leave  him  till  he  reached  the 


TURK   GOLD.  13 

cabaret.  Whether  my  poor  uncle's  thoughtless  disposition  makes 
me  fear  for  him  ;  or  because  there's  sadness  in  all  partings,  I  have 
never  felt  for  him  so  much  tenderness — almost  apprehension  as  now. 
How  good  he  was  to  me  when  a  boy — gay  genial  heart,  how  he  en- 
tered into  all  my  sports,  and  became  himself  a  child.  How  often 
have  I  sat  on  his  knee  by  a  Christmas  lire,  and  thought  his  cheery 
smile  was  made  to  match  it.  .  I  have  half  a  mind  to  follow  him. 
Lucy  will  be  freed  from  all  anxiety  about  me  now.  [A  repirt  of  fire- 
arms is  heard,  r.]  What's  that':  [A  second  report,  R.]  There,  again  ; — ■ 
it  comes  from  the  direction  which  he  took.  It's  not  a  night  for  a 
foul  deed,  or  I  should  fear — nay,  I  do-  -I  must  be  satisfied.  Langley, 
uncle  Langley  !  [lie  goes  out  following  Langley,  r.  1  e.] 

SCENE  THIRD.  —Another  put  of  the  Wood  —  Moonlight  —  Rin aldo, 
De  l'Epine  and  Langley,  arc  discovered — De  l'Epine,  kneeling,  sup- 
ports Langley,  who  is  desperately  wounded — Rinaldo  stands  a  littlo  apart, 
pistol  in  hand. 

De  V  Ep.  This  is  an  ugly  affair,  Rinaldo. 

Rinal.   He  provoked  his  fate. 

Lang.   [Faint.]  You  forced  it  upon  me — compelled  me  to  fighl 

Rinal.  Yes — you  had  insulted  me  grossly,  and  in  public.  "I  learned 
your  movements  and  could  not  suffer  you  to  escape  without  satisfac- 
tion ;  but  you  fell  in  a  fair  duel.  You- fought  with  your  own  wea- 
pons, mind,  though  we  provided  others. 

De  V Ep.   [To  Langley.]  Ah  !  why  did  you  not  apologize  ? 

Lang.  Too  late  to  ask.     Fly,  fly — while  there  is  yet  time. 

De  V Ep.  You're  a  gallant  fellow. 

Rinal.  De  l'Epine,  we  must  indeed  fly.  Remember,  not  only  our 
liberty,  but  the  secrets  of  a  cause  are  at  stake. 

De  I' Ep.  What  would  you  do  ? 

Rinal.  Start  at  once  by  the  voiturier  to  Strasburg. 

De  V Ep.  It's  hard  to  leave  you  thus,  but  we  must,  even  to  send 
assistance.  Come — the  case  may  not  be  so  bad — lean  on  me,  I'll  be 
very  gentle,  so — [he  props  up  Langley.]     Poor  fellow. 

Rinal.  Quick  !  quick  !     Moments  are  precious. 

De  V Ep.  [To  Langley.]  Help  will  come.  Keep  up — keep  up. 
Now,  Rinaldo  !  [to  Langley,]  help  will  come. 

[Rinaldo  and  De  l'Epine  exit,  r.  1  e. 

Lang.  No  help  will  serve  me  now.  I  grow  faint.  Frank — poor 
Frank — if  he  knew  this  ! 

Enter  Rochford,  l.  1  e. 

Roch.  Was  it  excited  fancy,  or  did  I  indeed  catch  a  voice  ?  [A  groan.] 
Who's  that  ?     It  is  he  !     Uncle  Langley. 

Lang.  Ah,  Frank  !  Frank  ! 

Roch.  Merciful  Heave Ji ! 

[Langley  attempts  to  rise,  Rcciiford  supports  him. 

Roch.  He'll  bleed  to  death.     What  villain  has  done  this  ? 

Lang.  My  own  folly.     No  vengeance.     Frank   I'm  dying. 


14  t«BE  COM). 

Roah.  Oh,  no.     Help  there — help. 

Lang.  Bless  you  !  Lucy — the  pet  at  home — little  Evelyn  !  Ah  ! 
no -more  games — no  more — Frank  !  [Jfe  sinks  back  and  dies, 

Ruch.  [Kneeling  by  his  side.]  Langley,  dear  uncle — not  a  sound — he's 
gone  !  Oh,  night  of  honor  !  how  the  still  moonlight  seems  to  mock 
this  deed  !     Ah  !  a  pistol  ? 

[He  takes  tip  and  tries  to  examine  p\stol,  then  conceals  il  in  his  bosom. 

Enter  three  Officers  of  Police,  as  be/ore,  L.  2  e. 

1st.  Off.  I  could  swear  the  shots  came  from  this  direction.  See^ 
6ee — a  man  on  his  knees  !     What  do  you  here  ? 

[Laying  his  hand  on  Rochford's  shoidder. 

Roch.   [Starting up.]  Who  speaks?  The  murderer!  [Seizes  1st  Officer. 

1st  Off.  Take  off  your  hands.  If  murder  has  been  done,  perhaps 
you  can  tell  us  about  it. 

2d  Off.  [Examining  Langley.]  The  man's  quite  dead — these  are  the 
two  persons  whom  we  last  met. 

1st  Off.  [To  Rociifokd.]  Now,  sir,  as  you"  may  see  we  are  officers  of 
the  police  ;  we  wait  your  explanation. 

Roch.  I  can  give  none. 

1st  Off.  [Pointing  to  the  body.]  We  met  you  with  this  man  some 
minutes  back. 

Roch.  I  parted  from  him  almost  instantly  ;  soon  after,  hearing  the 
report  of  arms,  I  returned  and  found  him — he  was  then  dying. 

1st  Off.  Strange  that  you  should  have  been  absent  just  in  the  crisis! 
of  time.  Hold  up  your  hand.  [Rochford  holds  up  his  hand.]  Your 
glove's  wet,  smeared  with  blood. 

Roch.  It  may  be  so. 

1st  Off.  Take  your  glove  off.  [Rochford  obeys— 1st  Officer  takes 
glove.]  What's  that  on  your  finger?  a  diamond  ring!  I  noticed 
one  like  it  on  your  companion's  hand. 

Roch.  That  is  the  ring  he  wore. 

la?  Off.  I  don't  doubt  it! 

Roch.  This  poor  gentleman  was  my  kinsman.  He  gave  me  the  ring 
in  exchange  for  money  which  I  furnished  to  him. 

1st  Off.  You  couldn't  afford  then  to  lend  him  the  money  ? 
'    Roch.  Alas,  no  ! 

1st  Off.  You  admit  then  that  you  were  poor  ?  [Apart  to  2d  Offi- 
cer.] That  shows  his  motive  !  [To  Rochford.]  Why  do  you  keep 
that  hand  in  your  breast?  [He  roughly  shakes  Rochford' a hand,  from 
which  a  pistol  drops,ivhich  1st  Officer  picks  up.]  So  !  a  pistol — and*just 
discharged. 

Roch.  Yes  ;  I've  seized  it,  as  it  might  lead  to  detection. 

1st  Off.  And  be  sure  it  will !  now,  mark  ;  a  few  minutes  since  you 
were  the  victim's  companion — we  now  find  him  murdered — his  ring 
on  your  finger — yourself  by  his  body — the  murderous  weapon  on 
your  person  ;  though  you  are  unable  to  explain  his  death.  You 
must  with  us  to  Baden — I  arrest  you  for  murder  and  robbery  ! 

Roch.  Murder  !  robbery  ?  Beware,  sir. 

3d  Off.  Here  is  the  fellow  pistol,  and  a  case. 


VVRK  GOLD.  15 

1st  Off.  Give  them  to  nic.   [To  E.ochford.]  Now,  sir  I 

Roch.  Charged   with   his  murder? — oh,    monstrous!   [Aside.]  And 

yet   tbe   proofs  seem   to  thicken  and  cohere.     Lucy,  my  own  Lucy, 

God  help  thee !   [1st  Officer  touches  him  on  tin  shoulder,  and  signs  to 

him  to  proceed.']  I'm  ready  1 

1st  Off.  This  way  !  [2b  Officer.]  Eemove  the  body  ! 

Eochford  goes  out,  preceded  by  1st  Officer,  and  followed  by  2d  and  3D 
Officers  icith  body,  l.  1  e. 

SCENE  FOURTH. — Front  of  the  Conversations  Haus,  as  before — Moonlight 
— The  scene  discovers  various  persons  entering  or  quitting  the  Conversations 
Haus,  among  the  latter,  Schmidt,  Hendrick's  Clerk. 

Enter  from  Conversations  Haus,  Sir  Gerard  Fane,  smoking. 

Sir  G.  Well,  for  once,  I  leave  a  winner.  But  what's  the  use  of 
money?  it  won't  buy  a  sensation.  Ages  since  there  was  a  fellow 
who  offered  a  reward  for  a  new  pleasure.  Gad,  if  life  was  so  stale 
in  his  time,  what  must  it  be  now  ?  Nothing  like  a  sensation  ever 
comes  my  way.  [Voices  at  side,  icitJiout,  l.  d.  e.  "  Halloa  there  !" — a 
■group  forms  at  l.  of  stage — other  persons  enter — a  buzz  of  voices  amidst  which 
are  heard  the  words — "Murder!"  "  Bobbery  !"  "Seized  by  the 
Police!"  &c.  &c]  What's  that? — Murder!  Bobbery!  Ah  !  perhaps 
affairs  are  looking  up!    [Approaching  group,  l.  u.  e,]   What  is  all  this  ? 

Schmidt.  There's  a  report  that  an  English  gentleman  has  been 
murdered — a  Mr.  Langley.  I  came  over  on  business  to  him  this 
very  morning. 

Sir  G.  Langley  !  I  recollect.  I  saw  the  man  at  the  rouge  et  noir 
table.     He  snorted  a  fine  diamond  ring,  did  he  not? 

Voices.   [From  group.]  Hush — hush— the  police  ! 

Enter  Officers  of  Police,  guarding  Eochford. 

Schmidt.  They  have  the  man  in  custody. 

1st  Off.  Halt  awhile.  Does  any  one  here  recognize  this  ring  ? 

[Exhibiting  it. 

Sir  G.  Yes,  I  do  by  its  old  fashion.    I  noticed  it  on  Langley' s  ringer. 

1st  Off.  Good  ;  you  may  be  needed,  sir. 

Schmidt.  [Astonished.]  What,    Mr.  Eochford — Langley's  nephew  ! 

1st  Off.  Do  you  know  the  prisoner  ? 

Schmidt.  Yes.  I  paid  him  six  hundred  florins  to  night  on  account 
of  his  uncle. 

1st  Off.  [To  2d  Officer.]  Six  hundred  florins  on  the  murdered 
man's  account.     Here's  motive  indeed. 

2d  Off.  He  had  not  nearly  that  sum  about  him. 

Roch.  He  had  paid  it  for  a  debt  at  play  to  the  Count  Manoli. 

1st  Off.  Who,  conveniently  for  you,  happens  to  have  fled. 

Roch.  You  exceed  your  duty,  sir  ;  these  are  matters  for  my  judges, 
not  for  you. 

Sir  G.  [Who  has  been  peering  into  Eochford' s  face.]  The  fellow  has 
some  pluck — what  a  look  ! 

[The  group  close  rouiui  Eochford  arid  Officers. 


16  PUK.K    GOLD. 

Enter  Mrs.  Eochford  attended  bg  Neuner,  the  landlord,  R.  V.  B. 

Mrs.  R.  Here,  Landlord,  this  way  ;  these  gentlemen  can  perhaps 
inform  us. 

Neu.  Gentlemen — this  lady,  staying  at  my  hotel,  has  heard  a  re- 
port of  some  foul  practice  in  the  forest :  she  is  alarmed  for  her  hus- 
band who  was  last  seer,  there. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  his  name  is  Eochford. 

Voices.  Eochford  ! 

[The  group  divides  and  Mrs.  E.  recognizes  her  husband. 

Mrs.  R.  Frank  !  Frank  !     0,  I've  been  in  such  trouble. 

1st  Off.  Alas,  madam,  I  fear  worse  is  in  store  for  you. 

Roch.  [To  Officer.]  One  moment.  Lucy,  [they  embrace,']  clear  loving 
wife,  the  truth  will  como  best  from  my  lips — I'm  a  prisoner. 

Mrs.  R.  A  prisoner — on  what  charge  ? 

Roch.  One  that  you  will  laugh  to  scorn. 

Mrs.  R.    [Passionately .]  On  what  charge  ? 

Roch.  My  poor  uncle  has  been  murdered. 

Mrs.  R:  Uncle  Langley  ! — horrible  ! 

Roch.  I  am  accused  of  the  crime. 

Mrs.  R.   [Bewildered.]  Of  his  murder? — ha,  ha,  ha! 

Roch.  Appearances  are  against  me  ;  but  fear  not,  I  can  explain  all 

Mrs.  R.  Explain  !  am  I  awake  ? 

Roch.  Lucy,  you  will  never  doubt  me  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Doubt  you— you!  Frank,  my  mind  wanders ;  keep  me  close. 

1st  Off.  Be  calm,  madam  ;  your  husband  goes  to  prison. 

Mrs.  R.  To  prison,  then — I  with  him. 

1st  Off.  It  cannot  be. 

Roch.  Lucy,  obey  for  my  sake.  [Aside.]  Oh,  this  is  the  keenest 
pang  of  all !  her  name — that  of  my  child,  may  be  stained  in  mine. 
My  own,  we  must  part. 

Mrs.  R.  Never ! 

Roch.  Lucy,  you're  the  wife  of  an  innocent  man. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes. 

Roch.  Then  you  will  say,  my  husband  is  innocent,  I  will  not 
tremble ;  he  goes  to  prison,  but  it  is  to  meet  a  slander,  to  redeem 
his  name  ;  he  will  redeem  it — I  will  let  him  go.   [Unwinding  her  arms. 

Mrs.  R.  Go,  Frank,  go. 

Roch.  Bless  you !  [Kissing  her.]  Be  gentle  with  her,  my  friend. 
[Resigns  her  to  Neuner.]     Lead  on,  gentlemen. 

Music — Mrs.  E.  lies  insensible  in  Neuner' s  arms.     Eochford  is  going  out 
in  charge  of  Officers,  and  followed  by  others  as  act  drop  falls. 

Fifteen  years  are  supposed  to  elapse  between  the  1st  and  2d  Acts. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE  FIEST. — A  Drairing  Room  in  Miss  Fortescue's  Country  House 
near  Dove) — the  grounds  are  seen  at  back  thrm/gh  an  open  French  window — 
the  Scene  discovers  Miss  Fortescuk  and  Braokenbury,  both  seated-. 


TURK   GOLD.  17 

Brack.  Well,  then,  dear  Miss  Fortescuc,  we  may  now  consider  all 
finally  settled  except  for  one  thing. 

Miss  F.  What's  that ! 

Brack.  Why,  since  my  son,  Gilbert,  and  your  protege',  Evelyn 
Rochford,  are  to  be  man  and  wife,  you  ought  really  to  be  more  explicit. 

Miss  F.  About  what  ? 

Brack.  About  Miss  Rochford's  father.  You  know  I  only  consent 
to  the  match  because  Gilbert  is  resolved  upon  it. 

Miss  F.  And  because  I  promised  Evelyn  six  thousand  pounds  on 
her  marriage. 

Brack.  True  ;  though  an  old  family,  we  are  too  poor  to  dispense 
with  money  ;  still,  as  my  son's  wife,  Evelyn  will  inherit  an  ancient 
name,  and 

Miss  F.  Pardon  me,  neighbor,  if  I'm  rather  tired  of  your  ancient 
name.  A  man's  family  is  not  like  a  Stilton  cheese — the  better  for 
being  mouldy. 

Brack.  But  you'll  grant  we  have  a  right  to  know  with  whom  we 
intermarry  ?     Now,  as  to  Evelyn's  father,  who  was  he  ? 

Miss  F.  I  have  told  you  twenty  times  that  I  never  saw  him  ;  and 
that  what  I  heard  was  not  to  his  advantage.  He  left  England  fifteen 
years  ago,  and  is  probably  dead  by  this  time. 

Brack.  You  can  assure  me,  at  least,  that  he  was  a  gentleman  ? 

Miss  F.  My  good  friend.  I  can  assure  you  of  nothing.  If  your  son 
marry  Evelyn,  he  must  take  her  at  all  risks. 

Brack.  These  are  hard  terms. 

Miss  F.  Then  reject  them. 

Brack.  But  can't  you  say 

Miss  F.  Only  what  I  have  said  before.  Mr.  Rochford's  wife  was 
my  dearest  friend  ;  she  died  about  a  year  after  her  husband  left 
England,  and,  in  compliance  with  her  last  wish,  I  took  her  Evelyn,  then 
a  child  of  five,  under  my  protection.  That's  all  I  can  say — if  you're 
not  satisfied  you'd  better  break  off  the  match. 

Brack.  Don't  be  angry. 

Miss  F.  I  doubt  whether  it  would  break  your  son's  heart  if  you 
did.  I  can  tell  you  Evelyn  is  by  no  means  pleased  with  his  careless 
manner  to  her  of  late. 

Brack.  Ah,  dear  Miss  Fortescue,  juvenile  lovers  are  careless,  it's 
the  fashion  with  them ;  but  what  wonder,  when  they  see  how  the 
enduring  devotion  of  mature  middle-aged  men  

Miss  F.  Is  cruelly  slighted.  I  know  what  you  mean  to  say.  Fif- 
teen years  ago  I  refused  you  at  Baden,  and  since  then  you've  only 
gained  one  point  in  your  favor. 

Brack.  And  what's  that? 

Miss  F.  Why,  that  you're  fifteen  years  older,  and  were  I  to  marry 
you,  my  penalty  for  that  gross  folly  would  be  so  much  the  shorter. 

Brack.  Ah  !  you  would  sooner  be  a  widow.     I'm  obliged. 

Miss  F.  You  see  you  will  stroke  my  fur  the  wrong  way  ;  what  can 
you  expect  but  a  scratch  ? 

Brack.  Well,  Gilbert  will  be  happy.  [Sighs. 

Miss  F.  Yes,  think  of  that ;  I  know  your  pride  in  him,  your  sacri- 


18  PUKE   GOLD. 

lices.  You  don't  play  the  lover  well,  but  I'm  sure  you  always  shone 
as  a  father.  And  now  I  must  really  dismiss  you  ;  I  expect  a  visitor 
every  minute. 

Brack.  Indeed. 

Miss  F.  Yes,  a  Mr.  Vernon.  Evelyn  needs  a  finishing  master  for 
her  drawing,  aud  Brown,  the  Dover  printseller,  recommends  this 
gentleman.  Here's  your  cane,  neighbor.  [Gives  it.]  We're  friends 
again.  [They  shake  hands.]  And  so  we  shall  be,  if  you  will  only  treat 
me  like  a  confirmed  old  maid  as  I  am.     Good  morning,  my  friend. 

Brack.  Ah,  Miss  Fortescue  !  [Goes  out  sighing,  c.  door. 

3Iiss  F.  I'm  vexed  to  the  soul  to  evade  him  thus  about  Evelyn's 
father  ;  such  concealment  is  repugnant  to  me.  But,  dear  charm- 
ing creature  as,  spite  of  her  little  foibles,  she  is,  how  would 
the  world  scorn  her  if  the  truth  were  known  !  The  child  of  a 
convict,  imprisoned  for  life  as  a  rubber,  and  though,  by  some 
strange  lenity,  acquitted  of  murder,  believed  by  alt  men  to  have 
been  guilty  of  it !  It's  true  there  were  some  faint  suspicions 
against  others ;  that  fact  saved  his  life.  Rochford's  tale,  though 
wild,  was  still  possible.  Yet  the  proofs  were  strong  enough 
to  convince  even  me — any  one,  hut  his  loving,  credulous  wife,  who 
died  protesting  his  innocence.  No,  I  dare  not  reveal  to  others  what 
I  have  hid  from  Evelyn  herself.  Thank  heaven,  she  believes  her 
father  dead,  as  indeed  he  may  be  ;  and  all  she  knows  from  me  is, 
that  he  broke  her  mother's  heart. 

Enter  Evelyn,  by  door  c.  from  n. 

Miss  F.  What,  my  !  darling  I  thought  you  were  with  Gilbert. 

Eve.   [Sadly.]  Yes,  dear  friend,  he  has  just  left  me 

Miss  F.  For  a  whole  hour,  possihly  ;  that  is  a.  trial. 

Ewe.  No  trial  to  him  ! 

[Sits  on  tarbaret  at  the  feel  of  Miss  Fortescue,  who  caresses  her. 

Miss  F.  Auother  love  quarrel!  what  has  happened?  Won't  the 
monster  go  on  his  knees  and  swear  that  she's  perfection  !  Was  he  five 
minutes  late  to-day  ;  or  what  other  enormity  ? 

Eve.  Don't  jest ! 

Miss  F.  I  thought  him  so  kind  and  good  humoured. 

Eve.  It's  that  eternal  good  humour  which  freezes  me.  He's  al- 
ways, calm,  smiling,  and  indifferent.     I  do  like  impulse  in  a  man. 

Miss  F.  A  dangerous  element,  Evelyn. 

Eve.  So  is  fire  ;  but  we  risk  the  danger  for  the  comfort.    • 

Miss  F.  Why  did  you  fall  in  love  with  him  ? 

Eve.  He  was  so  different  then— all  ardor  and  devotion.  Since 
that  last  visit  to  London,  when  he  entered  at  the  Temple,  he's 
come  back  as  dry  as  one  of  his  own  law  books,  and  throws  as  much 
romance  into  a  love  suit  as  he  would  into  a  Chancery  one. 

Miss  F.  It's  but  a  manner  he  has  caught.  Depend  upon  it,  he 
has  been  laughed  at  in  London,  for  being  romantic,  and  now,  like 
many  people  of  warm  feelings,  he  shrinks  from  displaying  them. 
The  whole  sex,  as  you  know,  is  my  aversion  ;  but,  for  a  man,  Gilbert 
is  really  passable. 


PURE   GOLD.  19 

Eve.  Ah,  kind  friend,  you  say  this  to  comfort  me  because  you  know 
that  I  do— do  love  him  dearly.  [Weeping  ]  But  why  can't  he*  show  a 
little  interest  in  me  ?  How  unlike  he  is  to  some  other  men — Sir 
Gerard  Fane,  for  instance  ? 

Miss  F.  I  dislike  Sir  Gerard  Fane  more  than  ever  !  If  I  did  not 
respect  his  relative,  Captain  Tresham,  with  whom  he  is  now  staying 
at  Dover,  I  would  forbid  him  the  house. 

Eve.  Nay — he  is  so  agreeable  and  well  bred.     You're  too  severe. 

Miss  F.  And  you,  too  gracious.  I'm  quite  serious.  .At  the  Ash- 
ford  Flower  Show  you  let  him  monopolize  you.  At  the  officers,'  ball 
at  Dover  you  were  his  constant  partner  ;  since  then  he  has  been  here 
reapeatedly  !  the  last  time  you  received  him  as  if  lie,  not  Gilbert, had 
been  your  suitor. 

Eve.  I  remember — Gilbert's  coldness  had  stung  me  that  morning 
— he  had  pressed  me  on  a  subject  that  always  tortures  me.     [Rises. 

Miss  F.  What  subject  ? 

Eve.  That  of  my  father,  on  whose  life  rests  such  a  cloud.  What 
could  I  say  ? 

Miss  F.  Alas — nothing. 

Eve.  Oh,  if  you  but  knew  how  my  father  died,  or  what  were  his 
errors. 

Miss  F.  Be  thankful  that  a  veil  hides  them.  Enough,  that  by  all 
report  they  cost  you  a  mother's  life. 

Eve.  Still  I  yearn  to  know —  yes  yearn — even  while  I  dread. 

Miss  F.  The  mystery  is  now  buried.  Come,  love,  turn  to  happier 
thoughts.     [Looking  off.     See,  here  comes  Gilbert — no  more  tears. 

Eve.  [Aside]  He  shall  not  see  them.     I'll  go  to  my  drawing. 

She  goes  to  an  easel  on  which  is  an  unfiuished  sketch  in  colors  ;  brushes  and  a 
palette  with  colors  are  at  liand,  she  takes  ap  a  brush.  Miss  F.  occupies 
herself  in  writing — enter  Gilbert,  c. 

Gilb.  What!  Evelyn,  at  your  drawing? 

Eve.  [Pretending  to  be  absorbed.]  I  cannot  get  this  water  to  look 
transparent. 

Gil.  Will  your  ladyship  deign  me  a  word  ? 

Eve.  Oh,  it's  you,  Gilbert. 

Gilb.  Yes,  it  is.     Have  you  quite  decided  ? 

Eve.  [Looking  at  sketch.]  What  a  dull  green  that  is.  Decided  about 
what! 

Gilb.  Why,  the  Dover  regatta,  of  course.  Now  won't  you  allow 
me  to  drive  you  over  ? 

Eve.  I  told  you  before,  Gilbert,  that  I  was  engaged. 

Gilb.  Very  well  ;  you  know  that  your  will  is  always  mine. 

Eve.  [Aside.]  He  doesn't  make  the  least  effort  to.  persuade  me. — 
Yes,  Gilbert,  you  generally  agree  in  my  decisions  when  they  relieve 
you  of  my  company. 

Gilb.  My  dear  Evelyn,  be  just.  You  tell  me  twice  that  you're  en- 
gaged and  don't  wish  to  go  How  can  I  imagine  that  you  have  no- 
thing whatever  to  do  and  would  very  much  like  the  excursion  ? 

Eve.  I  shouldn't  like  it,  and  I  don't  mean  to  go. 


20  rni?E  gold. 

Gilb  SJ^aughing]  Well,  don't  be  angry,  I  only  supposed  that  you 
knew  your  own  mind. 

Eve  [Aside]  There,  he's  laughing — my  displeasure  is  but  sport  to- 
him. 

Miss  F  [Advancing]  Gilbert,  Evelyn  is  really  engaged  ;  she  expects 
Air.  Vernon,  a  drawing  master  from  Dover. 

Gilb  After  he  leaves  we  might  slill  be  in  time  for  the  regatta. 

Eve  [Aside]  Ah,  perhaps  he  does  wish  me  to  go!  We  should  be 
very  late,  Gilbert ;  it  would  be  scarcely  worth  while. 

Gilb  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't,  if  yon  don't  care  for  it 

Eve  [Excitedly]  I  tell  you  once  more  I  don't  care  for  it. 

[Retires  and  sits. 

Gilb  Then  I'll  just  tell  Watson  we  shan't  want  the  ponies.   [Going. 

Miss  F  [Apart  to  him]  A  word,  Gilbert — she  thinks  you  indifferent. 

Gilb  Indifferent — why  ?  I  grant  I'm  not  always  at  her  feet,  quot- 
ing poetry,  as  I  once  was.     I've  lived  in  London  since  then 

Miss  F  And  been  laughed  out  of  your  heart,  eh  ! 

Gilb  No  ;  but  out  of  my  sentimentality.  1  was  properly  roasted 
for  it  by  Templars  and  club  men.  I've  learned,  Miss  Fortescue, 
that  while  it's  manly  to  feel  love,  it's  childish  to  prate  of  it.  Acts 
for  me,  not  talk.  Mere  words  are  like  steam  when  it  escapes.  There's 
much  noise,  but  the  engine'?  at  a  stand.  Deeds  are  like  steam  when 
it's  confined.    There's  less  sound  but  the  train  drives  on. 

Enter  Servant,  c. 

Servant  Signor  Lancia,  ma'am,  has  just  arrived  from  London. 

Miss  F  Signor  Lancia!  Say  I'll  come  to  him  at  once.  [Exit  Ser- 
vant, c]  Lancia,  my  dear  delightful  patriot,  the  only  man  I  have 
ever  met  who  has  love  for  his  country,  and  who  never  pretends  it  to 
Avoman !  Evelyn,  you  must  join  us:  but,  first,  foolish  children, 
make  up  your  quarrel.  Troubles,  like  weeds,  spring  up  of  their  own 
accord  ;  there's  no  need  for  us  to  sow  them.  [She  goes  out. 

Eve  Gilbert,  she's  right.     I  was  out  of  humor  and  unjust. 

Gilb  Say  no  more,  Evelyn,  I  beg.     I  had  almost  forgotten  it. 

Eve  Forgotten  it !  If  you  had  been  angry,  I  should  have  felt  it 
for  weeks. 

Gilb  Nothing  can  be  better  ;  if  T  forget  your  little  whims  and  you 
attend  to  mine  we  shall  have  a  reasonable  chance  of  being  happy. 

Eve  My  whims,  sir !  you  take  them  easily. 

Gilb  I  may  as  well,  love,  as  I  shall  have  to  bear  with  them  for  life. 

Eve  To  bear  with  them.  You're  under  no  compulsion,  Gilbert — 
if  I  cannot  be  a  wife  to  be  prized  I'll  not  be  one  to  be  endured. 

Gilb  [Good  humoredly]  Do  you  mean  to  be  unendurable  then  ! 

Eve  [Aside]  He  hasn't  a  spark  of  love  for  me.  I  can't  even  vex  him. 

Enter  Servant,  c. 

Servant  Sir  Gerard  Fane. 

Eve  [Aside]  So'. 

Gilb  [Displeased,  aside]  Here  again  !  [Exit  Servant,  0. 


PURE   GOLD.  21 

Enter  Sir  Gerard,  c. 

Sir  G.  Good  motning,  Miss  Rochford.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Biack- 
enbury  ? 

Eve.  Good  morning,  Sir  Gerard.  [Shakes  hands  with  him  cordially.]  I 
almost  feared  you  hud  forgotten  us. 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  Good.  I  was  here  three  days  since.  Miss  Roch- 
ford, you  give  me  a  temptation  to  be  absent. 

Eve.  What  can  that  be  ? 

Sir  G.  The  pleasure  of  hearing  that  you  regret  it.  [Bows. 

Eve.  But  you  are  too  generous  to  seek  pleasure  at  the  expense  of 
yotfr  friends. 

Gilb.   [Aside,.]  Humph. 

Sir  G.  Nay,  too  selfish  to  remove  their  concern,  when  it  so  much 
flatters  me 

Gilb.  [Aside.]  What  next? 

Sir  G.  And  now  to  my  errand.  This  is  what  they  call  a  great 
day  at  Dover.     Do  you  patronize  the  regatta  ? 

Eve.  I  fear  not.     It  must  be  an  interesting  sight. 

Sir  G.  You  think  so.  My  trap's  at  the  inn  ;  dare  I  ask  for  the 
pleasure  of  driving  the  ladies  over  .' 

Eve.  [Aside.]  I'm  glad  Gilbert  hears  this.  [Aloud.]  Oh,  that  would 
be  delightful  ! 

Gilb.   [A-ide]  What,  after  she  refused  me  !  • 

Eve.  [To  SiB  Gerard.]  But  I  must  refer  you  to  Miss  Fortescue. 

Sir  G.  She's  now  in  the  grounds.  I  just  caught  sight  of  her  with 
that  clever  Italian,  Signor  Lancia.     I'll  offer  my  petition  at  once. 

[Going. 

Eve.  Wait,  Sir  Gerard,  on  second  thoughts 

Sir  G.  Nay,  I  shan't  permit  you  to  retract ;  I  told  you  I  was 
selfish.  [Exit,  c 

Eve  [Advancing  to  Gilbert.]  How  grave  he  looks.  Oh,  I've  been 
very  wrong,  but  he  so  provoked  me.     Gilbert ! 

Gilb  [Very  coldly.]  Miss  Rochford. 

Eve.  Miss  Rochford  !  why  you're  angry. 

Gilb.  Toamuch  pained,  madam,  for  anger. 

Eve  [Aside.]  Pained  ;  then  he  does  love  me.  Indeed,  Gilbert,  I 
won't  go  to  the  regatta. 

Gilb.  You'd  better  tell  this  to  Sir  Gerard.     [Taking  his  hat  aud going. 

Eve.  You're  not  going — listen  to  me. 

Gilb.  Pardon  me— some  other  time. 

[Boivs  and  goes  slowly  to  window. 

Eve.  No,  now — now  ;  forgive  me,  and  you  shall  be  as  good-humor- 
ed as  you  please.     What,  Gilbert ! 

Gilb.   [Turning  to  her  relentingly.]  Evelyn — Evelyn  ! 

Eve.  [Clapping  her  hands  and  affecting  childish  impenitence.]  Naughty 
Evelyn  !  [He  laughs  and  shalccs  his  head,  she  takes  his  arm,  they  pass  out  by 
the  window,  c. 


22  PURE    GOLD. 

SCENE  SECOND. — Grounds  adjoining  Miss  Fortescue's  House— House  in 
the  distance;  on  one  side  of  grounds  a  lodge;  a  rustic  seat  in  c.  practicable. 

Enter  Jackson  and  Morley,  from  door  of  lodge,  R.  c. 

Mori.  So  you're  lodge-keeper  here,  friend  ? 

Jack.  Yes,  sir,  for  these  fifteen  years. 

Mori.  You're  positive  that  Sir  Gerard  Fane  is  now  in  the  house 
yonder  ? 

Jackson.  Positive,  sir  ;  you'll  be  sure  to  find  Sir  Gerard  Fane  at  the 
house. 

Mori.  Thank  you,  I'll  wait  for  him.     You've  a  fine  prospect  here. 

Jack.  Yes,  sir,  the  view's  much  admired.  It's  wonderful  what 
a  sight  of  artists  we  have  hereabouts  in  summer.  [Pointing.']  Look, 
there's  one  of  'cm.  [Pointing  off.]  A  queer  gentleman  he  is,  to  mv 
thinking. 

Mori.  Why  so  ? 

Jack.  Well,  he  came  here  three  days  since,  and  asked  leave  to 
sketch  in  the  grounds. 

Mori.  That  was  but  natural. 

Jack.   Yes  ;    but   I   fancy   it  was   all  make-believe.     After  a  few 
scratches   with  his  pencil,  he  began  questioning  me  about  the  ladies 
of  the  house. 
•   Mori.  Rather  inquisitive,  eh  ? 

Jack.  Yes  ;  perhaps  so  ;  but  in  a  mild  gentleman-like  sort  of  man- 
ner. But  the  strangest  thing  was  how  he  would  now  and  then  fix 
his  eyes  on  me,  as  if  my  words  were  guineas,  and  then  look  away 
as  careless  of  'em  as  if  they  was  pebbles. 

Mori.  Some  eccentric  man  of  genius,  I  suppose 

Jack.  I  can't  say  as  to  that.  But  you  should  have  seen  him 
when  the  brougham  passed  through  ;  "Who's  that  ?"  says  he,  all  of 
a  shake  ;  "My  mistress,  Miss.  Fortescue,"  says  I;  "Indeed,"  he 
answered,  with  a  gasp,  like.  "  I  hope  she  won't  think  I'm  tailing 
a  liberty  ;"  "  Not  a  bit,  sir  ;"  says  I,  she  never  shuts  her  gate  against 
artists."  Then  I  told  him  that  my  young  lady,  Miss  Rochford,  was 
a  pretty  tidy  artist  herself,  and  that  Mr.  Brown,  the  Dover  printseller, 
was  on  the  look  out  for  a  first-rate  master,  just  so  finish  her  off  ; 
la  !  what  a  start  he  gave — he  snatched  up  his  portfolio — wrung  my 
hand  as  if  I  had  been  his  best  friend,  and  a  minute  after  was  tramp- 
ing hard  on  his  way  to  Dover ! 

Mori.  Perhaps  to  make  interest  for  this  very  situation. 

Jack.  In  that  case,  why  doesn't  he  march  boldly  up  to  the  house? 
Look  at  him  there  as  he  sits  with  his  head  propped  on  his  arm.  Ah  ! 
he  rises — he's  coming  this  way. 

Mori.  Don't  watch  him  ;  he  may  dislike  observation.  I've  still  a 
question  or  two  to  ask  you  ;  suppose  we  walk  into  the  lodge  here. 

Jack.  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  [Exeunt,  r.  c. 

Enter  Eocqford,  r.  1  e.,  ivho  has  assumed  the  surname  of  Vernon — he  ad- 
vances with  a  feeble  step,  and  places  his  portfolio  on  seat. 


l'UBK   GOLD.  23 

Roch.  Is  this  a  Areata  ?  About  to  see  her  ! — the  long  —almost  hope- 
less yearning  of  years  fulfilled.  Have  I  indeed  been  released  from  my 
prison? — shall  I  not  wake  and  be  still  there  ?  Released  ! — yes,  par- 
doned for  the  services  I  rendered  ;  but  my  innocence  still  unproved 
Why  do  I  delay  ?  I  have  the  needful  testimonials,  yet  tremble  to 
approach  her.  How  can  I  meet  her  as  a  stranger  ?  If  she  have  her 
mother's  look — if  she  speak  to  me  with  her  mother's  voice  how  shall 
I  command  myself  ? — 1  must !  I  must  learn  whether  she  cherishes  th  ■ 
thought  of  a  father,  or  turns  from  it  as  disgrace  .  If  the  latter,  I 
will  not  shame  her.  I  will  quit  her — quit  SWF* unknown — though  il 
break  my  heart !  [Throws  herself  on  beach  in  emotion. 

Re-enter  MontEY,  door,  it.  c. 

Mod.  [After  observing  Eociiford]  I'm  not  mistaken — it  must  be  he ! 
[Advancing]  What,  Vernon  ? 

Roch.  You,  Morley  !  my  best  friend,  who  helped  me  when  desti- 
tute ? 

Mori.  Nay  ;  I  but  recognized  your  merit  as  an  artist,  and  employ- 
ed you  to  instruct  my  daughter. 

'Roch.  But  what  brings  you  from  London,  Morley  ? 

Mori.  I'm  on  the  track  of  a  superfine  gentleman— Sir  Gerard  Fane. 

Roch.  Sir  Gerard  Fane  !   [Aside]  Years  back,  the  scandal  of  Baden. 

Mori.  Yes,  my  friend ;  Sir  Gerard  ;  who  having  first  borrowed 
money  of  me  on  mortgage,  deigned  to  improve  our  acquaintance, 
and  even  be  a  guest  at  my  table. 

Roch.  A  dangerous  one  ! 

Mori.  He  proved  so.  In  a  short  time  he  pursued  my  daughter 
with  his  attentions.  The  dear  simple  girl  was  charmed  and  flatter- 
ed—in short  permitted  herself  to  love  him. 

Roch.  He  proposed  for  her  ?     - 

Mori.  Not  in  words ;  he  was  too  wary  for  that;  but  by  his  in- 
timacy— his  seeming  tenderness — by  all  the  nameless  acts  which 
speak  to  a  woman's  heart.  After  a  while,  on  pretence  of  an  ad 
vantageous  purchase,  he  applied  to  me  for  a  fresh  loan  of  some 
hundreds.  As  he  moved  in  a  different  sphere  from  mine,  I  had 
then  heard  nothing  to  his  discredit — I  would  not  distrust  one  who 
might  be  my  son-in-law,  I  lent  him  the  sum— this  time  without 
Becurity  ;  soon  his  visits  grew  fewer — then  ceased  !  He  left  us,  and 
fled  to  the  Continent — I,  defrauded  of  my  money — my  child,  of  her 
hopes  and  affections. 

Roch.  Well  that  she  escaped  from  him  ! 

Mori.  Well  indeed  !  I  have  since  learned  that  it  is  this  man's  ex- 
ecrable pastime  to  win  the  attachment  of  trusting  women,  and, 
when  he  can  do  so  safely,  to  compromise  their  reputation. 

Roch.  Villain  !  and  he  goes  unpunished  ? 

Mori.  Yes,  he  is  too  crafty  to  commit  himself. 

Roch.  And  you  are  now  in  search  of  him  ? 

Mori.  Ay  !  to  recover  my  money,  or  at  least  to  punish  him.  He 
is  at  this  moment  in  yonder  house. 

Roch.  At  Miss  Fortescue's. 


24  PURE    GOLD. 

Mori.  Yes  ;  it  is  even  reported  at  Dover  that  he  1ms  a  design  on 
one  of  the  inmates. 

Roch.   [  With  agitation.']   What  design  ? 

Mori.  To  repair  by  marriage  the  fortune  he  has  lost  on  the 
turf. 

lioch.  Marriage  !  with  whom  ? 

Mod.  It  is  said  with  a  Miss  Rochford,  who  resides  there. 

Roch.  Miss  llochford  !     [Aside.]     Thank  heaven  I'm  in  time. 

Mor.  Stay,  I  hear  voices.     Can  it  be  he  ?     No.        [Looking  off,  l. 

Roch.  Who  then  ?     [Listening  intentlg.]     Women  ! 

Mor.  One  of  them. 

Roch.   [Still  listening,  but  without  looking.]  Hist!   they  turn  back. 

Mor.  [Still  looking  off.]  Yes,  they  strike  into  another  walk.  But 
look,  a  new  form  appears,  that  of  a  younger  woman  :  .-lie  approaches 
us — nearer — still  nearer.  How  fresh  and  fair  a  creatuiv  ;  yet  her  look 
is  pensive,— a  flesh  and  blood  April  for  your  pain  tin  :,  friend  artist. 
[Rocuford  grasps  the  seat  by  which  he  supports  himself.]  What's  this, 
Vernon — you're  ill? 

Roch.  No,  not  ill.     [Aside.]     Courage — she's  here. 

Enter  Evelyn,  r.  1  e. — Rochford  totters  forward  and  gaze*  on  her  earnest- 
.  ly  ;  Morley  removes  his  hat  to  Evelyn,  who  returns  his  .sduiation.  Roch- 
ford then  glances  at  Morley,  and  remembering  himself,  removes  his  hat  to 
Evelyn. 

Eve.  Your  look,  sir,  is  a  sort  of  enquiry.  Have  you  any  question 
for  rne  ? 

Roch.   [Struggling  with  Aw  emotion.]  Young  lady,  if  your  name  is 

Eve.  My  name  is  Rochford. 

Roch.  I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Miss  Rochford.     [He  gives  her  letter. 

Mor.  As  you've  business  here,  Vernon,  I'll  retire.  [Aside.]  He 
doesn't  hear  me — strange  !         [Boivs  to  Evelyn  and  goes  out,  r.  1  e. 

Eve.  [Who. has  opened  letter.]  Oh,' from  the  print-seller.  You're  the 
drawing- master  he  wrote  about 

Roch.  [Who  has  been  lost  in  watching  her,  suddely  recovering  himself .] 
Yes,  yes,  madam ;  I  have  his  recommendation,  and  other  testimo- 
nials.    I  have  specimens  too— specimens 

[ Pauses  and  presses  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 

Eve.  You  seem  faint ;  the  heat  has  overcome  you  ;  lean  on  me. 

Roch.  You  are  all  goodness ;  but  I  am  myself  again — being  very 
poor,  the  fear  of  your  rejection,  for  a  moment  unnerved  me. 

Eve.  I  grieve  that  you  are  unfortunate.  Pray  walk  with  me  to 
the  house. 

Roch.  [Talcing  up  portfolio.]  Willingly,  madam.  [Aside.]  Strength, 
Heaven,  strength ! 

Enter  Sir  Gerard  Fane,  r.  1  e.  ,  meeting  them. 

Sir  O.  Occupied,  Miss  Rochford — or,  may  I  again  urge  my  request  ? 
Eve.   [Courteously.]  Thanks,  Sir  Gerard,  but  it  would  be  in  vain  to- 
day—Miss Fortescue  refuses.  [Passes  on. 
Roch.   [Aside.]  Sir  Gerard !                          [Rtgai  diig  Sir  G.  fixedly. 


PURE   GOLD.  26 

Sir  G.   [As  Evelyn  (joes  out.]  I  shall  plead  once  more.     [Regarding 
Rochfoud:]     Yon  will  know  me,  friend,  when  we  next  meet. 
Koch.  Possibly,  sir.     I  have  a  retentive  memory. 

[FoUown  Evelyn  out,  l.  u.  e. 
Sir  G.  What  docs  he  mean?  I  could  almost  fancy  I  had  seen  him 
before.  [Throws  himself  down  on  the  garden  bench.]  I  hope  the  rascal 
knows  nothing  to  prejudice  me  with  Evelyn.  It's  plain  she  likes 
me  ;  each  time  that  I  call  she  gives  me  a  warmer  welcome.  That  of 
to-day  was  a  challenge  !  The  world  says,  she'll  have  her  friend's 
money.  Most  likely,  too,  she  has  some  fortune  of  her  own.  Yes, 
thoroughbred  as  I  am,  I  must  sacrifice  myself  and  go  into  the  shafts 
of  matrimony.  There's  no  help  for  it.  [Enter  Moeley,  .r  1  e.  ;  he 
stands  apart  and  observes  Sm  Gerard  Fane.]  With  fortune  flown  out 
of  the  window,  and  want  thundering  at  the  door — with  that  revenge- 
ful old  Morley  on  the  watch.  [Observing  Morley.]  Eh  !  talk  of  the 
devil,  &c,  I  could  swear  that's  he!  Here's  a  fix!  Advancing  to 
Morley  with  feigned  delight.]  What,  Morley,  my  good  friend  !  [Offers 
his  liand.]     Not  shake  hands  ? 

3lor.  With  you,  Sir  Gerard  ? 

Sir  G.  My  dear  fellow,  if  I'm  so  disagreeable  to  you,  why  do  you 
come  after  me  ? 

Mor.  Why  ?     For  the  money  you  wheedled  out  of  me. 

Syr  G.  Oh  !  that  trifling  loan  ? 

Mori.  With  which  you  decamped  to  the  Continent  ;  but  I  heard 
you  were  come  back. 

Sir  G.  Yes,  for  the  express  purpose  of  paying  you.  I  grew  quite 
uneasy.  "That  worthy  Morley,"  I  said,  "  will  be  anxious  about 
his  money." 

Mori.  A  little. 

Sir  G.  All  right ;  'twill  be  at  your  bankers'  next  week.  And  now, 
dear  Morely,  your  hand. 

Mori.  No  sir ;  not  to  the  spendthrift  —  the  libertine  —  the 
gamester — 

Sir  G.  [Soothingly.]  Not  quite  so  loud.     Go  on,  Morley. 

Mori.  The  impostor  who  deserted  my  child  ! 

Sir  G.  On  my  life,  you're  unjust !  I  admired  your  daughter — who 
could  help  it  ?  but  I  am,  as  you  say,  a  spendthrift  and  a  rover  ;  I 
knew  she  would  have  been  wretched  with  me  ;  so  I  conquered  my 
passion — I  wasn't  selfish  enough  to  marry  her. 

Mori.  Hypocrite  ! 

Sir  G.  There's  gratitude  !    Come  this  way,  let's  talk  matters  over. 
[Offering  his  arm  which  Morley  rejects. 

Mor.  I  demand  my  debt. 

Sir  G.  Very  natural ;  but  not  so  loud,  not  so  loud.  This  way, 
dear  Morley. 

Mor.  I'll  not  be  duped  twice. 

Sir  G.  Of  course  not.  Take  my  arm.  What,  you  won't — you 
really  won't  ?    Oh,  very  well ! 

They  go  out  at  side,  opposite  to  tliat  taken  by  Evelyn  and  Rociiford. 


26  PUKE   GOLD. 

SCENE  THIED.—  Drawing  Room  as  before. 

Enter  Evelyn  by  urindow,  followed  by  Rocuford,  c. 

Eve.  Walk  in,  Mr.  Vernon  ;  you  still  look  tired,  pray  sit.  [He 
bows  and  site,  wMh  the  takes  off  her  hut  and  scarf.]  I'm  quite  impatient 
to  begin.  With  Miss  Eortescue's  consent,  I'll  cake  my  first  lesson 
to-morrow. 

Roch.  Shall  I  show  you  my  sketches  ?  [Opens  hit  portfolio.     ■ 

Eve.  Do  so ;  but  I  must  wain  you  you'll  have  a  giddy  pupil ;  I 
shall  try  your  patience. 

Roch.  It  will  holdout. 

Eve  I've  ordered  refreshment  in  the  next  room.  Till  it's  ready 
may  I  run  through  your  portfolio  ?  [Crosses  to  table,  L. 

Roch.  Certainly. 

Eve.  [Thking  sketches  from  portfolio  and  examining  them  one  by  one.]  A 
6cene  in  Switzerland.  How  exquisite  a  contrast !  The  nook  of 
green  valley  with  its  cattle  and  simple  herdsmen,  surrounded  by 
mountain  walls  half  veiled  in  mist — like  our  little  human  life, 
rounded  by  eternity. 

Roch.   [Enthusiastically.]  You  have  the  soul  of  a  painter. 

Eve.  Ah.  but  not  his  hand.     This  is  far  beyond  me.     [Lays  it  aside. 

Roch.  What  do  you  say  to  this  ? 

Eve.  Sunset  on  the  Khine.  How  grandly  that  old  fortress  stanils 
out !  Still  too  difficult.  [Lays  it  aside  ]  That's  a  fine  clump  of 
trees;  perhaps  I  could  manage  that.  [Lays  it  aside]  But  w hat's 
this  that  looks  so  like  a  prison  ? 

Roch.  It  is  one — a  prison  in  Germany.  [She  lays  it  aside. 

Eve.  And  here's  another  ;  surely  it's  a  prison  cell  with  its  lonely 
inmate. 

Roch.  You  are  right. 

Eve,  These  are  gloomy  subjects. 

Roch.  They  are  illustrations  for  a  story. 

Eve.  A  story — do  you  mean  a  romance  ? 

Roch.  You  may  call  it  so. 

Eve.  Oh,  I  delight  so  in  romance.     Do  you  know  the  author  ? 

Roch.  Yes,  the  poor  artist  beside  you,  obliged  to  eke  out  a  living 
by  his  pen  as  well  as  pencil,  is  himself  the  author. 

Eve.  You  !  Author  and  artist  both  !  Then  you're  what's  called 
a  genius.  How  delightful.  What  is  the  plot  of  the  tale  ?  Do  tell 
me. 

Roch.  [Aside.]  She  leads  to  the  very  point.  It  relates  to  a  father 
and  a  daughter. 

Eve.  A  father!  [Aside,  turning  away.]  He  little  knows  the  grief  of 
that  word  to  me. 

Roch.  [Aside,  watching  her.]  A  father  !  She  shrink*  from  the  very 
name  ! 

Eve.  Well,  Mr.  Vernon  ? 

Roch.  [Affecting  a  smile.]  Young  lady,  the  story  is  a  long  one. 
Yet  perhaps  some  day  when  you  have  patience 


PURE   GOLD.  27 

Eve.  You  will  tell  it.  I  shall  hold  you  to  your  word.  Now  follow  me. 
[Rising.]  Your  must  need  refreshment.  [Archly.]  Do  you  know  I'm 
getting  almost  afraid  of  you  as  you  write  romances.  I'm  told  that 
you  clever  authors  put  every  one  you  meet  into  your  books.  Tray 
don't  introduce  me  ! 

Koch.  You  are  quite  safe. 

Eve.  If  you  do,  I  shall  expect  to  be  flattered.  I  don't  object  to  a 
trifling  fault  or  two,  just  to  keep  me  human ;  but  you  must  make 
me  all  that's  noble  and  high-hearted. 

Roch.  I  will  try  hard,  if  I  undertake  the  task. 

Eve.  Come  then,  it's  a  compact — come  [Exeunt,  k.  door. 

Enter  Miss  Fortescue  and  Sir  Gerard,  c. 

Miss  F.  You  mist  excuse  me,  Sir  Gerard  ;  I  am  much  engaged  to- 
day.    I  thought  you  were  at  Dover  by  this  time. 

Sir  G.  No  ,  I  wanted  to  see  you  alone.  Positively,  I  thought  your 
tete-a-tete  with  Signor  Lancia  would  never  end.  Liy  the  way,  is  not 
Lancia,  the  droll  fellow  who  goes  through  the  country  boring  quiet 
folks  for  subscriptions,  and  persuading  romantic  ladies  to  n^.ld  fancy 
fairs  for  the  cause  of  Italy  ? 

Miss  F.  Remember,  sir,  that  you  speak  of  my  friend.  Have  you 
further  business  with  me  ? 

Sir  G.  Only  to  persuade  you  to  be  amiable  and  relent. 

Miss  F.  Relent  as  to  what  ? 

Sir  G.  As  to  the  regatta ;  we  should  still  be  in  time. 

Miss  F.  Sir  Gerard,  I  declined  your  offer  before,  I  trust,  civilly. 

Sir  G.  Undeniably. 

Miss  F.  Then  don't  repeat  it,  or  I  may  decline  uncivilly. 

Sir  G.  But  Miss  Rochford's  wishes 

*    Miss  F.  In  this  case,  are  not  mine. 

Sir  G.  Still 

Miss  F.  Excuse  me  ;  I  have  one  marked  failing— a  proneness  to  be 
downright.  Sometimes  I  tell  people  my  opinion  of  them  to  their 
faces  ;  that  I  may  not  yield  to  the  temptation  now,  I  prudently 
withdraw  from  it.     Sir  Gerard,  good  morning.       [Exit,  door  r  3  e. 

Sir  G.  [  Walking  to  and  fro.]  I  should  have  married  that  woman 
after  all :  her  fortune  would  have  heen  one  famous  point — her  tem- 
per another.  Plain  life's  as  insipid  as  plain  water  ;  but  every  word 
from  her  lips  would  have  been  a  drop  of  such  pure  alcohol,  that  I 
think  I  could  have  relished  the  draught.  [Sits.]  I  fear  she'll  hard- 
ly stand  my  friend  with  Evelyn.  Can  I  win  the  pretty  simpleton  in 
spite  of  her  ?  that  might  be  difficult.  Something  must  done  ;  if 
Morley  fulfils  his  threat,  I'm  ruined.  It's  said  there's  some  mys- 
tery about  the  girl's  parentage.  No  matter,  if  she  has  money.  But 
has  she  ?    Are  there  no  means  by  which  I  could  learn  ? 

Re-enter  Rochford,  r. 

Roch.  [Aside.]  He  here  !     Evelyn,  how  to  protect  thee  f 

[lie  takes  up  his  port/olio  and  collects  sketches. 


28  PURE   GOLD. 

Sir  G.  Who's  that  ? 

Roch.  The  drawing-master. 

Sir  G.  When  the  deuce  did  yon  come  in  ? 

Roch.  Just  now  for  my  portfolio. 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  The  drawing-master  !  He  may  he  the  man  for  my 
purpose  ;  I  suppose  he's  often  here  and  knows  something  of  the 
family  affairs.     Your  name  is — is 

Roch.  Vernon  ! 

Sir  G.  Pardon  me — are  these  sketches  yours  ? 

Roch.  They  are. 

Sir  G.  Surely  I  know  this  place.  Yes,  it's  Baden  Baden  with  its 
saloon  and  pleasure  grounds. 

Roch.  You  are  right. 

Sir  G.  I  thought  so.  [Carelessly  retaining  the  sketch.]  You  find  Miss 
Bochford  an  apt  pupil — eh,  Mr.  Vernon  ? 

Roch.  She  has  much  taste 

Sir  G.  Every  gift  of  mind,  person,  and  fortune 

Roch.  Indeed  !  of  fortune  ? 

Sit  G.  Yes — you  know,  of  course,  that  she'll  be  Miss  Fortescue's 
heiress 

Roch.  There's  such  a  report.     [Aside.]     So,  he  would  sound  me. 

Sir  G.  Nay,  I  take  a  liberty  in  speaking  of  it.     But  as  her  friend — 

Roch.  Naturally  you  feel  interested.  [Aside.]  I'll  give  him  full 
scope. 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  The  fellow's  disposed  to  gossip.  Who  could  fail  to 
be  interested  in  one  so  amiable— so 

Roch.  So  unsuspecting. 

Sir  G.  So  charitable. 

Roch.  To  the  poor,  you  mean  ? 

Sir  G.  Ay,  gives  a  great  deal  away,  I'm  sure.  • 

Roch.  I've  heard  so  in  Dover. 

Sir  G.  You  have.  Excellent  young  lady.  [Aside.]  Then  she  has 
money  of  her  own.     Yes,  she  quite  deserves  her  brilliant  prospects. 

Roch.  I  don't  doubt  it.     Yet  brilliant  prospects  have  their  dangers. 

Sir.  G.  Dangers,  Mr.  Vernon  ? 

Roch.  Nay,  it's  hardly  for  me 

Sir  G.  To  discuss  Miss  Bochford' s  affairs.     No,  nor  for  me,  still — 

Roch.  I  meant  the  danger  which  attends  inexperience. 

Sir  G.  You're  standing.  '[Points  to  a  chair.  Bochford  sits  l.  of  table.] 
Yes,  I  take  you. 

Roch.  The  danger,  Sir  Gerard,  that  such  a  prize  might  fall  to  one 
unworthy  of  it. 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  He  talks  freely,  on  my  soul.  Well,  as  vou  have 
broached  the  subject.  I  grant  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  she 
became  a  prey  to  some  designing  fellow — say  some  country  clod- 
without  fortune  or  accomplishments. 

Roch.  And  then,  sir,  you  know  there's  equal  danger  on  the  other 
hand  from  men  of  very  particular  accomplishments. 

Sir  G.  Ah,  the  ingratiating  dogs. 

Roch.  Men,  Sir  Gerard,  who,  when  they  have  run  through  one  for- 


PDItE   GOLD.  29 

tune — we'll  say  on  the  turf  or  at  play — have  the  accomplishment  of 
extracting  another  from  the  credulity  of  their  friends. 

Sir  G.  Hem — you're  a  hit  of  a  cynic,  Mr.  Vernon.  [Aside]  Where 
have  I  heard  that  voice  ? 

Roch.  I  once  knew  a  London  merchant,  Sir  Gerard,  who  had  been 
the  victim  of  such  a  person. 

Sir  G.  A  merchant !  [^tjffe.1  Morley,  perhaps.  I'm  sure  I've  seen 
him  before.     A  merchant,  eh  ? 

Roch.  Into  whose  family  this  accemplished  person  gained  entrance 
First  he  won  the  daughter's  affection,  and  then  made  of  it  a  key  to 
the  father's  strong  box.  The  one  he  robbed  of  money,  the  other  of 
peace. 

SirG.  So. 

Roch.  Oh,  but  he  had  other  triumphs.  There  were  honorable  wo- 
men, whose  hopes  he  had  blighted,  for  he  could  feign  love  for  sport, 
and  still  keep  clear  of  the  law  ;  innocent  women  whose  good  name 
he  had  stained,  for  he  knew  how  to  boast  by  hints,  and  still  keep 
clear  of  the  law.     He  was  so  accomplished,  you  see. 

Sir  G.  Well,  sir,  what's  this  to  the  purpose? 

Roch.  Nothing,  perhaps, — the  mere  habit  of  an  artist  to  hit  off  a 
portrait.     By  the  way,  do  you  recognize  it  ? 

Sir  G.  I — no  !  Confound  me  if  I  do. 

Roch.  Not  singular,  Sir  Gerard.  I  have  often  produced  a  striking 
likeness,  which  every  one  knew  except  the  sitter. 

Sir  G.  Wait  a  moment.  Yes,  yes  ;  putting  this  and  that  together, 
I  fancy  you  mean  me.     Do  you  see  this  cane  ? 

Roch.  It  has  a  gold  head.     Is  it  paid  for  ? 

Sir  G.  You  know  that  you  are  safe — that  I  cannot  punish  you 

without  offending  Miss  Rochford.       [Aside,  looking  at  Rochford  keenly 

while  he  collects  his  sketches.]     Rochford  !    Rochford  !      How  that  name 

and  this  man's  face  carry  me    back.     Can  it  be  ?    The  very  voice 

•too. 

Roch-  I'll  thank  you  for  my  sketch. 

Sir  G.  [Looking  at  sketch,  which  he  has  retained.]  Oh,  this — your 
drawing  of  Baden.  [Aside.]  Baden  !  all  tallies  and  coheres.  You've 
been  at  Baden,  perhaps  ? 

Roch.  I  at  Baden  !     Oh,  yes — yes. 

SirG.  [Aside.]  He  hesitates.  So  have  I,  years  ago.  A  strange  inci- 
dent happened  just  then — the  arrest  of  an  Englishman  for  the  rob- 
bery and  murder  of  his  kinsman. 

Roch.  (Controlling  himself.]  Indeed.     Oblige  me  with  my  sketch. 

Sir  G.  [Withdratving  it.]  I  saw  him  on  his  way  to  prison,  in  front 
of  this  very  building.  [Points  to  sketch.]  I  was  present  at  his  trial.  I 
have  never  forgotten  that  man's  face.  [Rochford  screens  his  face 
icith  portfolio — Sir  G.  lags  his  hand  upon  it ;  Rochford  screens  his  face 
with  a  sketch. 

Roch.  No  doubt  it  would  strike  you — the  sketch. 

Sir  G.  You're  in  haste.  He  was  convicted  of  robbery  and  impris- 
oned for  life. 

Roch.  Oh  !  only  of  robbery. 


30  .  •  PORK   GOLD. 

Sir  G.  [Aside]  Clever  rascal.  As  to  the  murder,  there  were  faint 
suspicions  against  others,  and  his  judges  were  squeamish. 

Eoch.  Merciful,  perhaps.     But  I  am  pressed. 

[Holding  his  hand  for  sketch. 

Sir  G.  [Still  withholding  it.]  I  am  not — and  I  have  a  fancy  for  you 
to  hear  me  out.  My  belief  is,  that  this  convict  escaped,  that  he 
came  to  England,  that  I  have  seen  him  here.  [Surveying  Bochfoiid.] 
ills  height  about — about  yours — his  hair,  iron  grey — his  age,  per- 
haps still  under  fifty — his  manner  caustic  and  insolent — his  profes- 
sion, an  avtist's.     You  see  I,  too,  can  hit  off  a  portrait.  Is  it  like  ? 

Eoch    How  can  I  tell  ?     Show  me  the  original. 

Sir  G.  I  thought  so — the  sitter,  you  said,  seldom  knows  himself. 
You  ate  a  capital  actor,  though. 

Eoch.  [Trying  to  laugh  him  doum.]  But  you  are  not.  Is  this  your 
clumsy  revenge  because  I've  just  humbled  you?  Away,  sir.  [Going  r 

Sir  G.  Stay,  Bochford! 

Eoch.  Bochf'oi'd  ! 

Sir  G,  Aye.  Bochford  !  I  will  see  if  others  recognize  my  portrait 
of  you  ;  I  will  take  it  at  once  to  your  pupil,'  Miss  Rochford. 

Eoch.   [With  uncontrolled  emotion]  To  Evelyn  !  Oh,  no  !  no,  no,  no. 

Sir  G.  Evelyn  ! — you  call  her  Evelyn  !  Evelyn  Rochford — your 
own  name,  too !  Then  the  mystery  of  her  parentage — your  agita- 
tion— ah  !  there's  more  in  this.     Yes,  to  Evelyn  Bochford.   [Going  v.. 

Eoch.  No,  not  to  her — not  to  her  ! 

SlrG.  Why  not? 

Eoch.  Because — because 

Sir  G.  I'll  tell  you  why — because  you  arc  her  kinsman — a  near 
one — too  old  for  her  brother — her  father ! 

Eoch.  Her  father? 

Sir  G.  Yes  ;  that  word  Evelyn  from  your  lips,  and  your  excite- 
ment, have  betrayed  you. 

Eoch.  Wretched  man  !  I  depend  for  bread  on  my  art,  and  you 
would  ruin  me  with  a  patron — this  explains  all. 

Sir  G.  Not  to  me.  [A  short  pause.]  Yet  listen — there  is  one  wav 
perm  ps,  by  which  you  might  escape  exposure. 

Eoch.  Exposure  ! 

Sir  G.  What  you  please.  I  doubt  not  that  you  are  Bochford,  the 
convict — Evelyn's  father — yet  for  her  sake- — — 

Eoch.  Well? 

Sir  G.  1  might  spare  you  ;  but  mark  me,  there's, an  if — 

Eoch.  If  what  ? 

Sir  G.  Can't  you  guess  ? 

Roch.  No. 
■  Sir  G  I  must  help  you  then — I  love  Evelyn. 

Eoch.    [Restraining  himelf.]  Go  on 

Sir  G.  1  would  many  her — but — psha  !  why  be  nice  with  you  ? 
My  affairs  are  desperate  —I  must  marry  a  fortune. 

Eoch.  Go  on. 

Sir  G.   You  can  help  me. 

Eoch.  No— she'll  spurn  you. 


rur.K  GOLD. 


31 


Sir  G.  In  that  distressing  event  you  can  still  help  me. 

Roch.  How  ■ 

Sir  G.  Confide  to  her  privately  who  you  are.  Tell  her  I  know 
your  secret  —that  for  your  sake  and  her  own,  she  must  he  mine  ; 
and  bring  me,  too,  au  ample  dowry  from  her  protectress. 

Roch.  So,  that's  my  task  ? 

Sir  G.  Comply,  and  you  are  safe. 

Roeli.  Villain,  coward  !     Oli,  words  are  poor  !    This  to  me — tome. 

Sir  G.  Then  you  are  her  father? 

Roch.  Who  said  that.  ? 

Sir  G.  Your  own  passion  again — why  else  should  you — 

Roch.  Why  else  1  Because  I  have  that  of  which  you  have  but  the 
forged  semblance— manhood.  Because  I  was  born  to  loathe  base- 
ness— to  revere  innocence — ay  !  and  to  protect  it.  Her  father  ! — 
Why,  were  I  the  convict  you  spoke  of  I  should  scorn  you  still.  Pas- 
sion may  drive  the  wretched  even  to  blood — want,  to  plunder  ;  and 
amidst. the  wreck  of  hope  and  virtue,  they  may  still  be  men.  But 
you  who  would  force  a  child's  heart  through  a  father's  agony — who 
would  extort  the  marriage  vow  itself  by  the  rack — the  chained  felon 
would  pollute  his  hand  by  the  touch  of  yours.     Begone,  I  defy  you  ! 

Sir  G.  [Aside.]  He  must  be  Rochford  !  yet  I  may  fail  to  prove  it. 
Good  morning !  you'll  be  sane  to-morrow.  Till  then,  I'll  keep  your 
6ecrct.  [Exit,  c. 

Roch.  Discovered !  and  by  him.  Oh,  I  have  been  rash  ;  but  the 
thought  of  Evelyn  transported  me  !  No  hope  of  his  mercy— none  ! 
What's  to  be  done  ?  he  will  belie  me  to  her — she  must  be  warned 
too  of  his  macinations  !  how  ?  there's  but  one  course — I  must  be- 
forehand with  him,  and  reveal  myself.  Yet  how  prove  my  inno- 
cence ?  no  matter  !  I  must  trust  to  nature's  instinct,  and  to  Him 
who  is  the  father's  Father  !  Yes,  Evelyn  ;  thou  shalt  know  me  to- 
morrow. [Sinks  into  cliair,  r.  of  table. 


ACT    III. 
SCENE  FIRST. — Grounds  in  front  of  Miss  Foetescue's  House. 

Enter  Sib  Gerard,  r.  1  e. 

Sir  G.  So,  he's  with  her  now  in  that  very  room.  He  still  gives 
me  the  answer  of  yesterday  ;  bids  me  in  fact,  do  my  worst.  Though 
I  could  almost  swear  to  his  face  and  voice,  though  his  passion  and 
alarm  witness  that  he  is  Rochford,  and  show  his  relationship  to  Eve- 
lyn, how  can  I  prove  this  ?  Were  he  once  identified,  all  would  go 
well.  I  should  at  least  checkmate  young  Brackenbury,  if  he  be  my 
rival.  What's  my  policy  then  ?  Decision — I'll  act  as  if  I  had  proof, 
and  warn  the  Brackenburys,  Rochford' s  emotion  may  again  betray  him 
They'll  keep  his  secret,  I  think  ;  if  so,  its  further  disclosure  would 
rest  with  me.  Yes,  I  should  be  master  of  the  situation.  Who  comes 
here?    Oh,  our  friend- of  Italy,  our  clever  patriot,  who  levies  funds 


12  PUKE   GOLD. 

for  his  country  and  makes  himself  the  treasurer — a  good  notion  that. 
Why,  won't  England  become  an  oppressed  nationality,  and  give  a 
poor  devil  a  chance.  [Enter  Lancia,  r.  1  e.]  Good  morning  my 
honest  patriot. 

Lan.  You  recall  me  then,  sir  ? 

Sir  G.  Yes,  my  sublime  virtue.  I  had  once  the  honor  in  a  crowd 
of  rubbing  against  your  immaculate  shoulders. 

Lan.  You  should  have  told  me,  Sir  Gerard,  that  I  might  have 
brushed  my  coat. 

Sir  G.  How — you  speak  thus  and  know  me  ? 

Lan.  Yes  ;  or  why  should  I  speak  so.  You  were  pointed  out  to 
me  yesterday,  besides,  I  have  seen  you  at  Baden.  [Going, 

Sir  G.  What — at  Baden?     That's  fifteen  years  siuce. 

Lan.  Very  likely. 

Sir  G.  Wait !  wait ! 

Lan.  Well,  sir? 

Sir  G.  [Forcibly  taking  his  arm.']  Yes,  just  fifteen  years.  The  very 
time;  you  may  remember,  when  an  Englishman,  named  Eochford, 
was  arrested. 

Lan.  I  remember  well — charged  with  robbery  and  murder  ? 

Sir  G.  That's  the  villain. 

Lan.  I  heard  of  him. 

Sir  G.  You  never  saw  the  man. 

Lan.  [Carelessly.]  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  him. 

SirG.  Often  ?_ 

Lan.  Several  times. 

Sir  G.  Lancia,  I  can  help  your  fortunes — I  mean,  of  course,  your 
country's. 

Lan.  How  ? 

Sir  G.  Could  you  identify  this  Eochford  if  you  saw  him  ? 

Lan.  I  can't  say  ! — possibly — why  ? 

Sir  G.  Of  course  you  detest  his  crimes  ? 

Lan. .  [After  a  short  paa  si.]  Sir!  am  I  a  gentleman  ? 

Sir  G.  Suppose  this  criminal  had  escaped 

Lan.  Escaped  ! 

Sir  G.  Would  you  help  to  bring  him  to  justice  ? 

Lan.  I  would  !  I  would  ! 
•    Sir  G.  He  has  escaped  ;  I  can  confront  you  with  him  ! 

Lan.  You  can  ?  do  so  then.  Yes  !  by  all  means  ;  but  quickly — I 
sail  to-night  for  Calais. 

Sir  G.  You  have  the  best  of  the  day  before  you.  [Looking  of.] 
Ah !  Miss  Eortescue  !  we  must  break  off— not  a  word  of  what  has 
passed  !     Meet  me  in  half  an  hour  at  the  inn  by  the  lodge. 

Lan.  And  you'll  tell  me  how  this  will  serve  my  country  ? 

Sir  G.  Yes,  yes  !  remember  :  in  half  an  hour  !  [Aside]  Now, 
Eochford.  [Exit,  r.  1  e. 

Enter  Miss  Fortescue,  l.  1  e. 

Miss  F.  What !  you,  Lancia  ?  I  scarcely  hoped  to  see  you  again 
at  present.     Was  that  Sir  Gerard  Fai.e  who  left  you  ? 


PURE  GOLD.  S3 

Lain.  Yes,  dear  lady  ;  but  talk  not  of  him — I've  just  had  glorious 
news,  and  flew  back  to  tell  it. 

ARs*  F.  Indeed  ! 

Lan.  Yes  ;  two  battles  have  been  fought,  and  the  enemy  decisive- 
ly routed.     Lombardy  is  free — my  dear  native  Lombardy. 

Miss  F.  News  to  stir  one's  blood — how  glad  I  am  !  How  glad 
Evelyn  Rochford  will  be. 

Lan.  [Musingly.]  Evelyn  Rochford — Rochford? 

Miss  F.'  Is  that  strange  ? 

Lan.  Oh,  no,  no  1     I  have  reason  to  dwell  upon  her  name 

Miss  F.  Because,  like  me,  she  loves  Italy.  Well,  good  friend,  your 
cause  is  half  won.  Oh  !  were  I  but  a  man,  I  would  help  you — not 
with  gold — but  with  steel. 

Lan.  Don't  I  know  it  ?     Lady,  if  in  going  back  to  my  land  I  feel 

one  struggle,  one  pang,  it  is  that  I — that  I  leave [Pausing  in 

emotion.']     Oh,  I  am  much  foolish !  .    •        . 

Miss  F.  Rut  you  will  return — you  promised. 

Lan.  That  is  with  heaven.  I  have  but  given  Italy  my  toil ;  she 
may  need  my  blood. 

Miss  F.  [Touched]  Then  this  may  be  a  last  farewell — a  farewell  to 
the  friend  I  most  honored,  to  the  true  heart  that  beat  but  for  a  noble 
cause. 

Lan.  And  who  was  it  that  cheered  me  ?  Who,  when  men  laughed 
at  me  for  a  dreamer,  said,  "  Courage,  Lancia  !  better  to  live  in  noble 
dreams  than  in  base  realities."  Whose  heart  and  hand  were  ever 
open  to  the  poor  exile  1  [Much  vioved.]  Ah,  lady,  forgive  tho 
tongue  that  at  parting  falters  with  gratitude,  devotion — love  ! 

Miss  F.   [Surprised.]  Lancia  ! 

Lan.  The  Signora  understands  me — love  for  a  sister,  Would  I 
had  such.     And  now  adieu.  [Takes  her  hand. 

Miss  F.  Adieu,  dear  friend.  May  your  lot  be  happy  as  your  heart 
is  noble.     May  you  find  friends— brothers  ;  even  the  sister  you  need. 

Lan.  Never  shall  I. 

Miss  F.  Except  you  make  one. 

Lan.  How  ? 

Miss  F.  As  others  do — by  a  wedding  ring. 

Lan.  Marry  I  shall  not.  If  I  could  live  three  lives  I  would  not. 
Farewell,  Signora.  [Kissing  her  hand,  then  aside]  Marry,  Lancia  ? — 
Never — never.  [Exit,  k.  1  e. 

Miss  F.  So  he's  gone  !  Brave,  high-hearted  gentleman,  who  bore 
want  with  a  smile,  and  lived  but  for  his  country,  who  never  flattered 
me  because  I  was  rich,  nor  presumed  because  I  was  gracious.  True, 
etaunch  friend,  I  shall  miss  thee.  How  pure  was  his  gratitude.  He 
loved  me  as  a  sister.  Had  he  breathed  a  warmer  love  should  I  have 
shrank  from  it  ?    What,  Helen  Fortescue,  this  folly  at  your  age  !^ 

[Smiling,  but  a  good  deal  moved. 

Enter  Servant,  x.  1  e. 
Servant,.  Mr.  Brackenbury  and  Mr.  Gilbert  have  called. 
Miss  F.  Very  well ;  say  I'll  come  instantly.     [Exit  Servant,  L.  1 


S4  VVtLV.  GOLt). 

£.]  There,  it's  over.  [Wiping  her  eyes. ~\  Go,  good  Lancia — Heaven 
prosper  you,  and  let  me  me  thank  it  that  I  have  seen  one  man  from 
whom  I  was  sorry  to  part.  [Exit,  L.  1  e. 


SCENE  SECOND.—  Library  in  Miss  Fortescue'9  House. 

Kochford  and  Evelyn  discovered;  drawing  on  an  easel,  paleUe,  brushes, 
&fc;  Evelyn  is  engaged  on  her  drawing,  Rochford  stands  near  and  ob- 
serves her  ;  a  short  silence  ;  the  clock  strikes  one. 

Eve.  One  o'clock  ;  then  I  may  lay  down  my  pencil;  our  lesson  for 
the  day  is  over. 

Roch.  Be  it  so  then,  we  continuo  to-morrow  ? 

Eve.   Yes. 

Roch,  [Aside]  Now  is  the  time. 

Eve.  [Showing  her  drawing.']  Well,  Mr. "Vernon,  have  you  any  hope 
of  your  pupil  ? 

Roch.  Yes,  you  have  taste  and  freedom,  but [Turning  away 

aside]     How  to  reveal  myself  ? 

Eve.  I  know  what  you  will  say,  I  need  care  and  patience. 

Roch.  The  subject  may  not  please  you  :  shall  we. choose  another? 

[Looking  through  his  portfolio* 

Eve.  No,  no  ;  you  will  spoil  me  by  indulgence. 

Roch.  [Taking  up  sketch.]  Here  is  a  simpler  one  for  to-morrow,  and 
here [Taking  up  a  second  sketch.]     Ah  !  tis  the  very  sketch. 

Eve.  That  I  should  like,  you  think  ?  [Approaching  him. 

Roch.  No  ;  the  one  that  startled  you  yesterday — that  of  the  prison 
cell. 

Eve.  Prison  cell !  oh,  yes.  [Eagerly.]  The  sketch  that  led  to 
your  story. 

Roch.  That  reminds  me.     I  promised  you  to  conclude  it. 

Eve.  I  have  not  forgotten  ;  will  you  do  so  now  ? 

Roch.  If  you  desire  it. 

Eve.  Of  course  I  do.     [Sits.]    There  I'm  all  attention. 

Roch.  [Aside.]  A  few  minutes  and  she  knows  all.  [Sinks  into  a 
chair,  then  slowly  turns  to  her.]  I  must  premise  that  the  story  is  a  sad 
one. 

Eve.  But  it's  only  fiction. 

Roch.  Nay,  partly  taken  from  life 

Eve.  Then  the  more  interesting. 

Roch.  I  told  you  that  it  concerned  a  father  and  a  daughter. 

Eve.  [Gravely.]  You  did.  Begin  with  the  lady — she  was  beautiful, 
of  course  ? 

Roch.  In  his  eyes. 

Eve.  He  was  a  fond  parent,  then  1 

Roch.  He  was. 

Eve.  And  she  loved  him  ? 

Roch.  As  my  tale  goes,  they  had  been  severed  from  her  childhood. 

Eve.  By  what  cause  ? 


PURE  GOLD.  35 

Roch.  That's  the  point  of  the  story.     Her  father  was  accused  of 
•  crime — of  the  robber's  crime— it  was  even  said,  of  the  assassin's. 

Eve.  What  a  painful  interest.     Proceed. 

Roch.  The  proofs  were  strong  against  him. 

Eve.  Was  he  guilty  ? 

Roch.  No,  a  thousand  times  no  !  but  the  law  pronounced  him  so  ; 
yet,  as  there  were  faint  doubts  in  his  favor,  his  doom  was  the  prison, 
not  the  scaffold 

Eve.  A  hard  fate,  if  innocent. 

Roch.  Ay  ;  cut  off  from  his  kind — from  esteem — from  love — from 
his  friends —from  his  child  ! 

Ere.  Yes,  his  child  !  did  he  see  her  no  more  ? 

Roch.  See  her?  [With  forced  cheerfulness.']  Oh,  yes,  yes;  in  the 
story  I  bring  it  about  that  he  does  6ee  her,  but  fears  to  reveal 
himself. 

Bee.  Why? 

Roch.  Lest  she  should  believe  him  guilty. 

Ehe.  But  she  was  his  child. 

Roch.  Well? 

Eve.  She  would  not  have  believed  it.  Spite  of  the  dye  on  his 
hand — the  chain  on  his  limbs — the  scorn  of  all  men,  she  would  have 
clung  to  him^-she  was  his  child. 

Roch.  [Aside.]  Bless  her,  bless  her  !  Is  there  no  case,  then,  when 
a  child  will  renounce 'a  father  ? 

Eve.  [Aside,  much  moved.]  My  father  broke  my  mother's  heart.  Yes, 
there  are  such  cases.  [Controlling  herself.]  But  one  thing  strikes 
me — you  have  never  mentioned  his  wife. 

"  Roch  [Agitated]  Spare  me  there — she  was  a  dear,  dear,  dear  friend. 
Return  to  the  husband. 

Eve.  Still  the  tenant  of  a  dungeon  ? 

Roch.  Yes  ;  but  even  there  men's  natures  will  show  themselves. 
In  time  he  came  to  be  trusted,  as  a  convict  might  be,  with  the  over- 
sight of  his  fellows.  After  some  years  a  fire  broke  out  in  the  prison 
— all  was  panic  !  For  safety,  the  convicts  were  hurried  into  the  pri- 
son yard.  They  would  have  seized  the  chance  to  escape,  even  by 
bloodshed.  The  counsels  of  this  man  restrained  some  ;  his  firmness 
others  ;  he  leaned  by  the  gate,  fixed  as  its  own  stanchions.  He 
raised  the  alarm,  though  fierce  hands  were  at  his  throat,  and  wild 
faces,  lurid  beneath  the  flames,  were  gleaming  on  his  own. 

Eve.  But  help  came  ? 

Roch.  Yes,  in  time — the  flames  were  subdued,  nor  was  the  man's 
services  forgotten  ;  in  two  years  more  an  order  came  for  his  release. 

Eve.  His  innocence  discovered  ? 

Roch.  No!  though  perhaps  surmised. 

Eve.  Then  he  still  went  forth  with  a  stained  name  ! 

Roch.  He  did  :  and  the  thought  might  have  crushed  him,  but  for 
another. 

Eve.  I  guess  it— it  was  the  thought  of  his  child  ? 

Roch.  It  was. 

Eve.  He  went  to  her  ! 


36  TURK   GOLD. 

Roch.  Aye  ;  once  released,  he  set  forth  in  quest  of  her,  for  many 
lands  and  the  sea  were  between  them.  Penniless,  at  times,  he  begged 
his  way,  nor  felt  it  shame.  One  day  he  toiled  with  the  peasants  for 
bread  ;  the-next,  he  gained  a  pittance  by  his  art.  Often,  half  fam- 
ished, he  made  his  bed  beneath  a  hovel,  or  on  the  bare  ground.  The 
very  elements  seemed  leagued  against  his  single  heart,  but  he  still 
bore  on  ;  want  and  toil,  wind  and  rain,  spent  their  force  o?i  him  in 
vain.  His  life  was  charmed — a  llame  that  hunger  could  not  exhaust 
nor  cold  chill,  nor  storm  quench — it  was  fed  by  heaven — it  was  love 
for  his  child. 

Eve.  Well,  he  found  her,  and  her  mother  ? 

Roch.  He  found  her  ;  the  mother 

Eve.  Still  lived  ? 

Roch.  [Greatly  moved.]  In  his  memory — in. his  heart,  but  on  earth 
• — no  more — no  more. 

Eve.  This  relation  pains  you.     Proceed  no  further. 

Roch.  I  must  !    I  can  command  myself  ;  can  you  ? 

Eve  Surely,  if  you  can. 

Roch  But  there  is  more  pain  to  follow,  perhaps  a  shock. 

Eve  [Slightly  alarmed]  To  whom  ? 

Roch  Prepare  yourself — be  calm  I  entreat. 

Eve  Calm  !     What  mystery  is  this  ?  [Both  rise. 

Roch  I  am  about  to  end  it.  Oh,  restrain  yourself — that  lonely 
mourner — that  bereaved  husband 

Eve  [Grasping]  Well  ? 

Roch  Js  the  man  before  you  ! 

Eve  [Retreating]  You  terrify  me.  Why  these  confessions  to  a 
stranger  ? 

Roch  A  stranger !     How  if  through  me  your  father  spoke  ? 

Eve  I  have  no  father. 

Roch  Have  you  proof  of  that  ? 

Eve  [Trembling]  Silence — don't  tell  me  that  he  lives  ? 

Roch  Not  tell  you  ? 

Eve  Not  of  him  who  broke  my  mother's  heart ! 

Roch  They  are  perjured  who  told  you  so.  Your  mother  loved  him 
— trusted  him  to  the  last.  Here  are  my  vouchers,  her  own  letters 
to  him.  [Produces  and  gives  letters. 

Eve  Her  very  hand  !  [Totters  to  a  chair. 

Roch  Evelyn  ! 

Eve  Evelyn  ! 

Roch  Yes,  Evelyn,  mine  by  the  right  of  love,  of  nature.  Ah,  do 
you  not  yet  see  it  ?    I — I  am  Rochford  ! 

Eve  And  my  father  !  No — no,  unsay  those  fearful  words!  [After 
a  pause]     Your  proofs  ? 

Roch  [Pointing  to  letters]  Those  letters  ;  where  could  I  have  obtained 
them,  but  from  your  mother?  Besides,  many  still  know  me.  [She 
shrinks]     Ay,  shrink.     I  see — I  see.  [lie  ureps. 

Eve  [Aside]  Tears!  they  are  not  feigned.  It  is  true.  Pity  me, 
sir  ;  if  you  are  indeed  my  father  think  what  I  must  feel  as 


PURE  GOLD.  37 

Roch  The  child  of  a  convict.  I  do,  and  since  you  recoil  from  mo 
I'll  not  torture  you.     I'll  quit  you  forever  ! 

Eve  Stay. 

Ro-.h  Well? 

Eve  You  said  you  were  innocent.     Prove  it. 

Roeh  I  cannot.  The  proofs  made  against  me.  What  can  I  say  ? 
Evelyn,  crime  leaves  ils  stamp  on  the  face — look  on  mine.  Crime 
blunts  the  heart — is  mine  hardened  ?  Have  you  no  instinct  that 
pleads  for  me  ?    Evelyn,  1  implore [lie  is  about  to  kneel. 

Eve  [Starting  up]  Oh,  do  not  kneel,  sir — not  to  me  ! 

Roch  Eight !  I  will  not.  When  under  a  felon's  ban,  your  mother 
acquitted  me.  The  man  whom  she  trusted  should  not  kneel.  Pure 
in 'her  sight  and  heaven's,  /  stand  !  Dare  I  invoke  her  memory 
and  meet  your  eye,  unshrinking,  if  I  were  not  innocent  1  Ah,  that 
look  !  speak — answer  ! 

Eve  Innocent,  1  believe  it,  innocent !     Father  ! 

[Throws  herself  into  his  arms. 

Roch  [Embracing  her]  Father  !  Close  !  close  !  I  have  thee— my 
own — my  own. 

Eve  Ay — yours  !  [They  stand  hand  in  hand. 

Roch  Let  me  gaze — gaze.  How  have  I  dreamed  of  this  !  No  dream 
now  !  This  hand  is  warm — firm.  1  have  seen  thee  in.  sleep  ;  but 
the  dawn  was  cruel.  Now,  I  shall  not  dread  the  sun.  :I  shall  wake 
and  have  thee.     Oh,  moment  that  repays  a  life  ! 

Eve  I  know  you  now. 

Roch  You  might  never  have  known  me  but  for  the  threat  of  a 
villain. 

Eve  Who  ? 

Roch  Sir  Gerard  Fane  !  He  guesses  my  secret,  and  would  force 
you  to  marry  him. 

Eve  Marry  him  !     I  am  already  betrothed. 

Roch  Bethrothed  ! 

Eve  To  Gilbert  Brackenbury,  the  son  of  a  neighbor. 

Roch  And  you  love  him  ? 

Eve  Love  him. 

Roch  Thank  Heaven,  she  is  safe. 

Enter  Miss  Fortescue,  Brackenbury,  and  Gilbert,  c.  from  l. 

Miss  F  What  is  this,  Evelyn, — your  hand  in  this  gentleman's  ? 

Brack  Why  that  almost  gives  color  to  the  statement. 

Eve  What  statement  ? 

Brack  Sir  Gerard  Fane's  ;  he  has  been  with  me,  and  declares  that 
this  person  calling  himself  Vernon 

Roch  Go  on,  sir. 

Brack  I  must  state  the  charge  that  you  may  refute  it.  He  asserts 
that  the  so-called  Vernon  is  no  other  than  an  escaped  convict,  and 
moreover — — 

Gilo  [Interrupting]  Do  not  tell  her  that ;  it's  false — monstrous  ! 

Miss  F  Yet  she  must  hear  it,  Gilbert,  Evelyn,  Sir  Gerard  dares  to 
assert  that  Mr.  Vernon  is [Hesitates. 


ob  PURE   GOLD. 

Eve  I  know  it  already  ;  the  gentleman  is  my  father. 

Brack  She  admits  it. 

Miss  F  No — I  demand  his  proofs. 

Eve  They  will  convince  you. 

Miss  F  Child,  dear  child,  and  if  he  were  your  father,  can  you 
guess •  • 

Eoch.  Madam,  she  knows  all — that  I  am  a  man  with  a  branded 
name,  but  still  innocent. 

Gilb  [To  Brackenbury]  Perhaps  so  ;  it  is  at  least  possible. 

Brack.  [To  Gilbert]  Silence,  sir.  [To  Rochford]  You  grant, 
then,  that  your  name  is  tainted  ;  and  you,  Miss  Eochford,  you  ac- 
knowledge this  man  ? 

Eve  I  acknowledge  him. 

Brack.  Then  I  must  tell  you,  with  deep  concern,  that  you  can 
never  be  the  wife  of  my  son. 

Jtoch.  Ah,  let  me  speak  !    . 

Brack.  No  ;  it  matters  not  whether  you  are  guilty  ;  you  have  been 
pronounced  so.  My  son  shall  never  be  connected  with  a  reputed 
felon. 

Eve  [Indignantly]  Felon  !     Father  ! 

Roch.  Patience,  love — no  anger,  no  anger.  [To  Brack]  I  can  re- 
spect your  feelings,  sir,  being  myself  a  father ;  still,  you  will  grant 
she  should  not  suffer.  Listen,  then,  I'll  not  shame  her.  [Bracken- 
bury  makes  a  gesture  of  repulse]  I'll  quit  this  spot ;  visit  her  as  a 
stranger,  in  private,  and  seldom — seldom.     I  am  quite  reasonable. 

3Iiss  F.   [Aside]  Can  this  man  be  guilty  ? 

Brack.  Words  are  idle.     Gilbert !  [Going. 

Gilb.  Stay,  sir ;  whatever  her  father's  faults,  they  cannot  affect 
Evelyn. 

Brack.  Not  affect  her  ? 

Gilb.  No.  Do  we  deal  thus  in  meaner  things  ?  Does  the  gold 
seeker  reject  his  prize,  because  encumbered  with  earth  ?  Evelyn,  I 
know  your  worth;  if  it  came  not  through  a  father,  then  heaven  gave 
it  you  direct.  Be  mine  for  what  you  are-  -the  dearer  for  your  sor- 
row. '  [Advances  to  her,  and  seizes  her  hand. 

Eve,.  Gilbert! 

Brack.  Am  I  in  my  senses  ?  Will  you  bring  infamy  upon  youi 
name? 

Gilb.  No,  sir,  I  will  maintain  it,  Remember  that  sailor  of  oui 
name — you  have  told  me  the  tale  often — who  was  hemmed  in  by  the 
foe  ;  their  guns  had  swept  down  his  comrades — battered  his  ship 
from  stem  to  stern.  "  Strike  your  flag,"  was  the  word — he  refused 
"  But  your  ship  sinks !"  they  cried.  "And  I  with  it,"  he  answered, 
and  went  down.  What's  a  man's  ship  to  his  betrothed  ?  If  fate 
wreck  Evelyn,  it  wrecks  me  with  her. 

Brack.  But  not  you  alone— your  father — the  weak  fool  who  was 
proud  of  you — schemed  for  you — pinched  for  you — he  is  your  vic- 
tim. Persist,  and  you  lose  me — you  shall  be  an  outcast  from  my 
heart,  and  my  memory. 

Eve.  Go,  Gilbeit,  I  implore — I  command  you. 


rrRE  gold.  39 

Miss  F.  Gilbert,  obey  her — obey  your  father — go  ! 

Gilb.  Only  for  a  time,  then — I'll  not  yield  her. 

Miss  F.  Silence — silence,  Evelyn. 

Eve.  Do  not  speak — leave  us. 

Miss  F.  [To  Brackenbury.]  Come,  sir — I  feel  for  you — we  will 
talk  of  this  together. 

[Miss  Foktescue,  Brackenbury  and  Gilbert  go  out,  c. 

Eoch.   [Approaching  her.]  Evelyn  !   [Site  stands  absorbed.]  Evelyn. 

Eve.   [Abstractedly.]  Ah,  yes,  yes  ! 

Eoch.  Not  a  look.  I  should  have  fo'rseen  this — I  have  undone 
her. 

Eve.  [Sousing  herself.]  No  |  no,  father.  Do  not  heed  his  taunts — 
Bit — sit.  [She  forces  him  into  a  chair,  and  kneels  by  his  side.]  Ah  !  lay  your 
hand  on  my  head  thus — that's  well.  I  know  what  you  must  have 
borne — I  will  be  your  comfort,  father.  We  will  have  one  home- 
one  lot — we  shall  be  so  happy — you  sec  I  can  smile  already.  But 
for  this  trial  I  had  never  guessed  the  half  of  Gilbert's  love — and 
though  I  lose  him,  still  that  thought — yes — though  I  lose  him — do 
not  heed  me — do  not  heed  me.         [She  bursts  into  hystc,  ical  weeping. 

Eoch.  My  child !  , 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  FIRST. — Grounds  in  front  of   Miss   Fortesoue's  house,  as  m 
Act  III. 

Enter  Miss  Fortescue  and  Rochford,  l.  1  e. 

Miss  F.  Yes,  I  admit  the  evidence  is  sufficient.  These  letters,  in 
the  hand  of  your  wife,  my  dearest  friend,  aud  your  other  proofs, 
convince  me.  [She  hands  hint  the  letters. 

Eoch.  You  grant,  then,  that  I  am  Rochford — Evelyn's  father  ! 

Mas  F.  I  cannot  doubt  it,  and  I  will  add  that  strong  as  circum- 
stances seemed  against  you,  I  would  fain  believe  in  your  innocence. 
But  is  there  no  way  still  left  to  prove  it. 

Eoch.  None,  save  the  confession  of  the  real  criminal. 

Miss  F.  But  those  jewels  which  were  sold  ?  What  became  .of  the 
money  you  received  for  them,  and  which  you  were  charged  with  ap- 
propriating ? 

Eoch.  It  was  paid  to  a  certain  Count  Manoli  by  my  uucle  for  a 
debt  at  play. 

Miss  F.  And  where  is  this  Count  Manoli  ?  He  might  throw  some 
light  on  the  affair. 

Eoch.  Yes,  he  might. 

Miss  F.  Has  due  search  been  made  for  him  ? 

Eoch.  For  years  :  but  in  vain. 

Miss  F.  [Aside.]  Poor  Evelyn  !  Who  approaches  ?  Sir  Gerard  Fano 
Rochford,  Mr.  Brackenbury  will  never  consent  to  his  son's  marriage 
with  Evelyn. 


40  PURE   GOLD. 

Roch.  I  know  it. 

Miss  F.  But  for  her  sake  he  has  promised  me  to  keep  your,  secret. 
You  must  do  the  same.  Put  Sir  Gerard  Vane  to  the  proof.  As  you 
value  Evelyn's  honor,  never  admit  to  him  that  you  are  Rochford, 
or  that [She  hesitates. 

Roch.  Or  that  I  am  her  father.     Truo— she  must  be  spared  that. 

Miss  F.  Forgive  me. 

Roch.  Freely.     I  know  my  part 

Enter  Sir  Gerard,  r.  1  e. 

Sir  G.  Once  more,  Miss  Fortescue,  your  very  humble  servant.  Am 
I  welcome  ? 

Miss  F,  That  depends  upon  your  business.  If  it  be  to  confess  your 
slanders  to  this  gentleman,  and  entreat  his  pardon — yes. 

Sir  G.  So  it's  to  be  war,  I  tiud — very  well — you  mean  to  dispute 
my  charges  ? 

Roch.  1  do — and  defy  you  to  the  proof. 

Sir  G.  Bravely  said,  Rochford.  How  well  you're  looking — how 
free  from  anxiety — how  safe  and  comfortable  you  must  feel. 

Roch.  If  you  mean  me  by  Rochford,  I  am  safe.  A  man's  character 
may  be  known  by  his  enemies  ;  mine  is,  Sir  Gerard  Fane. 

Miss  F.  True,  Mr.  Vernon,  but  even  malice  itself  should  have 
some  slight  pretext.  Are  you  sure,  after  ail,  that  we  do  not  wrong 
this  man  ? 

Roch.^  Wrong  him  ? 

Mm  F  Yes  ;  are  such  delusions  the  fruit  of  a  sane  mind  ?  [Speak- 
ing in  a  lower  tone,  but  so  as  to  be  heard  by  Sir  Gerard.]  I  have  just 
heard  that  he  has  had  frightful  losses  on  the  turf — ruinous  losses.  It 
may  be  that  the  trouble  has  gone  there.  •  [Touching  forehead. 

Roch.  To  his  brain  ?  It  may  be  so. 

Sir  G.  Miss  Fortescue  ! 

Miss  F.   [Soothingly.]  Yes,  Sir  Gerard. 

Sir  G.  Give  me  leave  to  say  how  thoroughly  I  admire  you.  You 
play  a  desperate  game  with  a  desperate  spirit.  It's  almost  a  sensa- 
tion to  be  matched  against  you.  You  insist  on  my  proofs,  then  ? 
Reflect,  Rochford  ;  the  facts  are  not  yet  made  public.  You  know  my 
terms  for  silence. 

Miss  F.  What  terms,  Mr.  Vernon? 

Roch.  [Forcing  a  laugh.]  Modest  ones.  I  believe,  madam,  that  you 
should  give  him  your  protegee,  Miss  Rochford,  in  marriage. 

Sir  G.  Ay,  or  at  least  a  compensation  for  the  loss  of  her,  which, 
in  gallantry  to  so  fair  a  lady,  I  must  of  course  rate  highly. 

Miss  F.  Unfortunate  man  !  His  malady  is  past  doubt. 

Sir  G.  That's  right — fortify,  fortify — throw  up  your  works  !  But 
in  modern*  tactics  the  beseiger  has  generally  the  advautage  ;  he  can 
attack,  you  see,  from  an  unexpected  point.  I  shall  be  really  sorry 
to  demolish  such  ingenious  defences,  especially  with  a  lady  in  the 
garrison  ;  but  I  must  throw  in  a  shell,  since  you  force  me.  I  must 
indeed.     [Aside,  going.]  Where  can  Lancia  be  be  ?     He  swore  not  to 


PURE   GOLD. 


41 


fail  me.  [To  Miss  F.]  Au  revoir,  my  fair  enemy  :  au  revoir.  [Exit  r.Ie. 

Roch.  He  has  some  proof,  then  ? 

Miss  F.  I  think  not ;  his  vaunts  may  be  the  disguise  of  his  weak- 
ness. 

Roch.  No— that  look  of  -wicked  triumph  was  not  feigned,  and  the 
shame  will  fall  upon  Evelyn. 

Miss  F.  Come  to  the  house— she  will  miss  you. 

lirch.  Miss  me  !  You  think  so  !  Muss  me  ! 

Miss  F.  Rochford;  nerve  yourself  for  her  sake. 

Roch.  I  shall  not  fail  ;  but  the  heart  must  have  way.  It  is  be- 
cause I  would  be  strong  with  her,  that  I  am  weak  now.  [Exit  l.  1  E. 


SCENE  SECOND— The  Drawing  Room,  as  in  Act  II. 
Enter  Evelyn  and  Gilbert,  c.  door. 

Eve.  Gilbert,  dear  Gilbert,  I  cannot  bear  this  ;  the  strugg.e  rends 
me.     Have  pity — say  farewell !  . 

[Throics  herself  into  a  chair,  L.  C,  he  sits  by  her  side. 

Gilb.  And  if  that  word  must  come,  should  your  lips  hurry  it  ?  Ah, 
you  cannot  guess  how  I  have  loved  you.  Fool  that  I  was  to  ape  a 
heartless  fashion,  an    feign  indifference.  • 

Eve  And  mad  that  /  was  to  doubt  you— to  wound  you  with  my 
jealous  caprices.     Ah  !  Gilbert,  the  truth  breaks  upon  us  now. 

GUb  Yes  ;  as  the  dawn  upon  the  doomed  man.  But  why  should 
we  bear  a  fate  so  wretched— so  undeserved?  When  we  exchanged 
our  vows  from  that  moment  we  were  one— one  no  less  than  if  we 
had  knelt  at  the  altar.  Evelyn,  I  will  not  yield  you  !  already  my 
wife  in  heart,  be  so  in  name— do  not— do  not  reject  me  ! 

Enter  Rochford  and  Miss  Fortescue,  unobserved,  c. 

Eve  Gilbert,  your  father's  command.  Do  you  think  I  would  bring 
upon  you  his  curse  ?    •  '_■'■. ."■_ .  . .-  • ,       .• . 

Gilb  What  does  he  demand  of  me  ?  That  I  should  be  false  to 
honor ,  no  less  than  love— that  I  should  desert  you  in  your  sorrow  ? 

Eve  Remember  his  pride  in  you— his  love. 

Gilb  In  aught  else  I  would  obey  him. 

Eve  Make  his  case  yours,  Gilbert.  My  father  is  innocent ;  I  know 
it— but  men  say  otherwise.  Could  I  force  upon  your  father  a  union 
which  he  would  deem  shame  ?     Oh  !  never— I  have  said  it— never  ! 

GUb  So  stern,  Evelyn  ! 

Eve  Stern  !  Do  1  not  feel  ?  Must  I  not  henceforth  travel  with 
weary  feet  through  the  gloom  whose  sole  light  is  memory  ?  Yes, 
my  beloved,  the  memory  of  you  !  [I'allenny. 

Gilb  Ah,  you  relent !  ,      [Kneeltng. 

Eve  No  ;  you  would  not  ask  it.  Think  of  a  parent  s  claim— a  pa- 
rent's—to whom  we  owe  life— love— nurture— of  whose  being  ours 


42  PURE  GOLD. 

is  a  part.  Help  me,  Gilbert,  help' me  to  do  right.  If  you  honor  mc, 
<lo  not  tempt  me. 

Gilb  Evelyn,  you  have  conquered  ;  I  resign  you. 

Eve  Now  then,  while  we  have  strength.  Stay  not  at  my  feet. — 
Bless  you,  and  farewell !  [He  kisses  her  hand  passionately  and  rises. 

Enter  Brackenbury,  c. 

Brack.  I  suspected  this.     So.  Gilbert,  I  have  sought  for  you. 

Gilb  You  should  have  been  earlier,  sir ;  you  would  then  have 
heard  Evelyn  reject  me  at  your  command.  You  have  triumphed, 
father — sundered  us  forever.  [Exit,  l.  c. 

Brack.  Yonng  lady,  you  have  done  well.  My  honor — the  honor  of 
an  old  name  is  all'  my  wealth,  and  you  have  spared  it.     I  thank  you. 

Roch.  Yes,  Evelyn,  you  have  done  well.  [He  takes  both  her  liands 
and  gazes  on  her  intently]  Nay,  droop  not.  This  sorrow  will  pass  — 
thy  father  says  it.     Retire  awhile,  my  own.     I  have  business  here. 

Eve  [Looking  at  him  earnestly]  You  will  not  leave  me  ? 

Itoch.  [After  a  short  pause]  Leave  thee — why  ask 

Eve  There  is  something  in  your  very  look  like —  [Pauses, 

Roch.  Like  what  ? 

Eve  Like  a  farewell. 

Roch.  [Aside]  Strange  instinct.  [Aloud]  Your  mind  has  been 
o'erstrained.  You  need  repose.  Go,  sweet.  [She  is  going]  Once 
more,  Evelyn,  to  my  heart — to  my  heart !  Courage,  my  girl,  [they 
embrace,]  there  is  a  Providence.     Go — go  ! 

[She  goes  end,  Eochford  leading  her  to  door  R.  and  following  Iter  with  his 
eyes,  then  reluming,  lie  stands  a  little  behind  Brackenbury  and  Miss  For- 

.TESCUE. 

Miss  F.  Now,  Mr.  Brackenbury,  you  are  content,  I  hope.  Gilbert 
has  obeyed  you. 

Brack.  If  he  hadn't  I  would  have  disowned  him.  I  wouldn't  have 
left  him  one  of  the  family  portraits. 

Miss  F.  Well,  they'll  hardly  bring  him  a  fortune.  Spoiled  canvas 
fetches  little  at  the  auction  rooms. 

Brack.  How,  madam  !  my  son  seU  his  ancestors,  sell  the  Bracken- 
bury's  and  the  O'Kilmacows  ! 

Miss  F.  What  else  can  he  do  ?  Your  annuity,  I  believe,  dies  with 
you. 

Brack.  True — true,  the  poor  fellow  will  indeed  have  to  rough  it. 

Miss  F.  My  dowry  to  Evelyn  would  have  been  a  small  provision 
for  him. 

Brack.  What !  Miss  Fortescue,  would  you  bribe  me  to  my  dis- 
honor ? 

Miss  F-  No,  but  I  would  lessen  your  pain  in  doing  an  act  of 
justice. 

B.ack.  Justice  ? 

Miss  F.  [Coazingly.]  Ah,  neighbor,  let  them  marry;  what's  your 
name  worth  if  it  won't  carry   them   through?    Should   the  world 


POKE  G0XU.  43 

look  a  little  shyly  on  Evelyn,  you  have  your  answer — she  married  a 
Brackenhury — that  silences  everything. 

Brack.  No,  madam,  not  even  that  answer  would  avail  against  such 
facts. 

Miss  F.  But  the  facts  are  not  known.  Sir  Gerard  cannot  prove 
Bochford' s  identity,  or  that  he  is  Evelyn's  father. 

Brack.  But  /should  know  it.  He  would  come  into  Evelyn's  pre- 
sence, sit  at  my  son's  tahle  ;  some  day  he  would  betray  himself.  No, 
with  such  perils,  with  Bochford  in  the  same  neighborhood,  in  the 
same  land — what  you  ask  is  impossible — I  will  never  yield. 

Roch.  [Advancing,  c]  One  word,  sir;  would  your  resolution  be 
chauged,  if  what  report  once  gave.outwere  true— if  this  Bochford. 
whom  you  so  loathe,  were  indeed  dead  ? 

Brack.  Dead  !     This  is  mockery. 

Roch  But  answer — in  that  case.' 

Brack  In  that  impossible  case,  I  might  yield. 

Roch  Then  count  me  dead — dead  to  my  country — dead  to  Evelyn 
— I  will  depart  at  once  for  Australia — pledge  myself  never  to  return 
— never,  while  you  forbid  it,  to  see  my  child,  or  even  to  hear  from 
her.     I  will  be  as  lost  to  her  as  if  her  foot  were  on  my  grave 

Miss  F.   What !  Could  you  really  tear  yourself  from  your  Evelyn  ? 

Roch  Yes ,  to  her,  mine  is  but  a  new  tie — a  loose  creeper  round 
her  life — rend  it,  the  tree  will  still  flourish;  but  her  love — the  branch 
grafted  on  herself — if  you  blight  that,  you  blight  the  root  that 
bears  it. 

Mise  F  This  is  a  noble — a  fearful  sacrifice;  and  yet,you  are  right, 
[2b  Brackenbury]  You  hear  him,  sir, 

Brack  I  hear  his  proposal. 

Miss  F  What  do  you  require  ? 

Brack  Security  that  he  will  keep  it. 

Roch  Security  !  I  am  poor,  and  must  live  by  toil.  I  am  already 
suspected  ;  wha-would  employ  the  discovered  convict  ?  Say,  then, 
should  I  be  so  mad  as  to  return — should  I  court  starvation  and  in- 
famy— infamy  that  would  wreck  my  child. 

Miss  F  He  would  not. 

Roch  [To  Brack]  You  do  not  refuse.  Ah,  think  !  the  fate  of  two 
human  beings  is  on  your  breath.  You  have  given  one  life — give 
him,  give  her  the  heart's  life— give  them  back  Nature's  own  right — 
the  rich  man's  crown — the  poor  'man's  riches — the  right  to  love. 
They  will  bless  you  all  your  days — bless  you  when  earth  takes  to  her 
bosom  your  proud  name,  and  my  stained  one — when  we  two  have 
passed  where  all  ranks  are  level,  and  all  hearts  open.  No — you  will 
not  refuse  me  !     [Clasps  hands  imploringly;  Brack  slowly  turns  away. 

Miss  F  And  if  he  do,  I  will  keep  no  terms  with  him.  I  will  my- 
self persuade  Evelyn  to  marry  Gilbert. 

Brack  No  need,  madam  ;  for  my  son's  sake,  I  accept  this  compact 
— I  consent. 

Miss  F  Ah,  neighbor,  I  knew 

Brack  Not  a  word — not  a  word — the  struggle  is  over — but  it  has 
been  sharp.*    I  would  be  alone.  [Exit,  l.  c. 


44  PURE    GOLD. 

3fiss  F  Rochford,  from   this   moment    I    believe    you    innocent. 
[Gives  him  her  hand,  tchich  he  presses  in  silent  emotion. 

Roch  Now  to  fulfill  my  compact;  I  depart  at  once. 

Miss  F  At  once  !  you  will  first  see  Evelyn  ? 

Roch  See  her — no.  That  would  indeed  unman  me.  I  will  but 
write  a  brief  farewell,  which  you  will  give  her — when  I  am  gone. 

Miss  F  Must  this  indeed  be  ? 

Roch  It  must — j'ou  felt  that  it  must — I  will  now  retire  to  the  lib- 
rary.   [Going  C. ,  and  looking  off  l]  Ah,  who  passes? 

Miss  F  [Looking- from  c  window"]  Sir  Gerard  Fane — and  can  I  believe 
it  ?  Lancia ! 

Roch  Lancia  ! 

Miss  F  Why  this  emotion. 

Roch  'Tis  nothing — the  mere  trick  of  my  brain,  which  still  con- 
jures up  the  past.     I  will  write  my  letter,  and  rejoin  you.   [Exit  b  d. 

Miss  F.  What  can  have  brought  Lancia  back,  and  in  company  with 
Sir  Gerard  ?  So,  he's  here  to  answer.  [Enter  Lancia,  l.  c]  Here 
again,  Lancia  ? 

Lan  Yes,  for  two  motives.  First,  let  me  tell  you,  I  have  been  to 
Dover.  There  a  telegram  reached  me.  I  am  restored  to  my  estates 
and  honors — recalled  by  the  king. 

Miss  F  [Sliaking  hands  with  him]  Joy  upon  joy. 

Lan  Ay,  joy,  that  would  be  perfect,  but  that  it  lacks  one  thing. 

MissF.  What? 

Lan  A  little  word,  a  single  word,  but  it  may  echo  through  a  life. 
You  know  that  my  cause  triumphs,  and  that  the  world,  as  you  say, 
claps  hands. 

Miss  F  Ay,  for  liberty. 

Lan  For  liberty  ?  For  success.  Ah,  dear  lady,  liberty,  when  it 
struggles,  is  like  your  London  Lord  Mayor  on  foot.  No  one  knows 
him — the  crowd — what  is  your  word— jostles— ay,  jostles  him  rough- 
ly ;  but  liberty  successful ! — ah,  that  is  my  Lord  Mayor  in  his  glass 
coach,  when  the  whole  street  follows  him  with  shouts. 

Mix*  F.  Nay,  Lancia,  there  are  exceptions. 

Lan  Yes.  Do  I  forget  who  honored  the  right  in  misfortune, 
whose  goodness  dropped  a  seed  into  ray  heart  that  quickened  and 
sprung  there.  Day  by  day  it  struck  deeper— grew,  budded.  I  guessed 
not  its  name.  I  called  it  gratitu  le.  At  last,  in  one  parting  mo- 
ment, in  a  rain  of  grief,  it  burst  i.ito  Power.  It  was  love— love  for 
you. 

Miss  F.  I  remember — as  a  sister  ! 

Lan  No ;  love  above  above  all  other.  But,  poor  and  banished, 
could  I  offer  you  my  hard  lot !  That  is  changed.  Now  I  can  speak  ; 
if  with  fear,  still  with  honor.  Dear  friend — friend  of  the  exile— I 
love  you. 

Miss  F.  Lancia     [Aside]     How  like  him  ! 
Lan  Now  for  that  little  word.     May  I  hope  ? 
Miss  F.  Do  not  ask  me.     I  have  cares  to-day  ;  cares  for  others, 
that  would  almost  make  my  happiness  a  sin. 

Lan  [  With  delight]    Your  happiness,  then • 


PURE   GOLD.  45 

Miss  F.  Once  more,  dear  friend,  urge  me  not  now.  What  was  that 
second  motive  for  your  return  ? 

Lan  To  do  what  .you  will  approve — an  act  of  justice. 

Miss  F  Indeed  !  [Aside]  I  hear  Roch ford's  step.  Lancia,  we  are 
interrupted      Leave  me  for  the  present. 

Lan  For  the  present;  but  for  the  present 

[Kisses  her  hand.     Exit,  r.  .1  e. 

Enter  RocnFORD  with  letter,  r.  2  e. 

Roch.  Here  is  the  letter.  [Giving  it]  Give  it  when  I  am  past  re- 
call. 

Miss  F  About  to  go  ?  Can  this  be  real  ?  Eochford,  you  will  write 
to  me  from  whatever  port  you  embark.     You  will  write,  I  say  ? 

Roch.  [Abstractedly]  Yes ;  'twas  there  we  sat  when  I  first  hinted 
my  story  to  her.  How  often  will  she  sit  there  and  the  very  sunlight 
fall  as  now.  Others  will  see  her — others— Is  this  my  firmness? 
[Taking  his  hat]  Farewell,  generous  woman.  You,  who  have  been  a 
parent  to  my  child,  take  the  blessing  of  the  parent  who  quits  her. 

[Takes  Miss  Fortescue's  hand,  tlten  slowly  advances  to  c.  window. 

Enter  Evelyn  by  door  l. 

Eve  My  father  !     Ah,  you  are  here. 

[Clinging  to  him,  Miss  Fortescue  conceals  the  letter. 

Roch  [Tenderly]  My  Evelyn,  what  brings  you  ? 

Eve  A  fear  tliat  I  cannot  master— fear  to  lose  you. 

Roch.  Why  this  fear  ? 

Eve  I  know  not ;  but  it  pursues  me  everywhere,  haunts  even  my 
dreams. 

Roch.  Your  dreams,  my  child  ? 

Eve  Aye,  bnt  vivid  as  realities.  Listen.  Tis  said  sleep  visits  but 
the  happy.  Oh,  false  !  Wretched,  and  worn  out,  I  sought  my 
chamber,  stnpor  fell  on  me,  and  I  slept.  Father,  I  dreamed  that  we 
stood  together  as  now.  Suddenly  the  earth  divided  at  our  feet.  We 
were  severed,  at  first  by  a  narrow  line  ;  then  it  widened — widen- 
ed to  a  gulf,  and  a  sea  rolled  between  us.  Still  it  spread.  Soon  I 
saw  you,  but  dimly.  I  called  to  you,  but  in  vain.  Then  all  was 
mist,  and  I  lost  you — lost  you ! 

Roch  [Aside]  And  she  loves  me  thus!  [To  Evelyn]  Nay,  'twas 
but  a  dream. 

Eve  You  will  not  leave  me? 

Roch  Am  I  not  here  ? 

Eve  You  will  always  be  mine  ? 

Roch  Thine !  aye.  Not  closer  light  to  eye  or  blood  to  the  heart 
Thine !  yes  ;  were  that  wild  dream  true — did  the  yawning  earth — 
the  seas  which  it  jvere  death  to  tempt — did  death  itself  divide  us 
— love  dies  not — I  should  still  be  thine. 

Sir  G  [At  windoio]  This  way,  gentlemen — follow,  follow. 

Roch  [Observing  him,  and  starting]  Ah  ! 

Sir  G  [Aside,  as  he  enters]  AH  ig  well.  Lancia  is  wonderfully 
keen  in  this  business. 


46  PURE   GOLD. 

Miss  F  You  make  free  with  my  house,  sir. 

Sir  G  Naturally — being  au  enemy's  post.     [To  Rocu]  What,  she 
in  your  arms,  and  you  not  her  father  '! 
Roch  And  were  I,  should  you  not  tremble'? 

Enter c.  Brack.,  Lancia  and  Gilbert. 

Sir  G  A  threat !     then     I  open    fire.     [All  come  forward]  Signor 
Lancia,  permit  me — an  old  acquaintance.     [Presents  him  to  Roch. 
Roch  That  face  again  ?     [He  and  Lancia  gaze  at  each  other  in  silence. 
Rir  G  You  recognize  him  ? 
Lan.  I  could  think  so. 

Roch  Have  I  not  met  you  before?    Ay,  often,  at  Baden— Lancia, 
— have  you  borne  no  other  name  ? 
Lan  What  other  ? 
Roch  Manoli — the  Count  Manoli. 
Lan  You  are  right. 
Miss  F  The  Count  Manoli ! 

Lan  Yes,  the  name  which  I  now  resume  ;    and    you    who    thus 
remember  me,  must  be  Rochford. 

Sir  G  [To    Roch]    A    slight    error    in  tactics.     [To  Lancia]  You 
identify  him,  then:  come,  the  truth — the  whole  truth. 

Roch  [To  Lancia.]  You    may   remember    then    my    companion, 
named  Langley  ? 

Lan  He  who  was  murdered  ? 

Roch  The  same;  on  the  very   night    of  his  murder   he  paid  you 
for  a  debt  at  play — about  sixty  napoleons. 
Lan  I  have  not  forgotten  it. 

Roch  That  sum  was  the  produce  of  jewels  which  he  had  sold. 
Lali  Yes,  so  Langley  told  me. 

Roch  He  did — you  could  have  proved  it,  but  you  had  fled. 
Lan  True ;  I  had  political  secrets— spies  were  on  my  track. 
Roch  I  had  myself  received  the  price  of  those  jewels— was  called 
to  account  for  it ;  my  story  was  disbelieved.    You  know  the  rest— 
I  was  condemned. 

Lan  And  I  could  have  cleared  you  ? 
Sir  G  [To  Lan]  Stay,  this  makes  for  him. 

Lan  [Soothingly]  The  whole  truth  you  said — this  is  but  part     [7b 
Rochford]     Yes    you  were   condemned  for  robbery,  und  suspected 
of  worse. 
Roch  I  was. 

Sir  G  Out  with  it — of  murder. 

Lan  Now  attend — I  had  a  partner    in  my  political  schemes  :  his 
name  was  Rinaldo. 
Roch  Rinaldo  ?  ay — speak. 
Sir  G  [Aside]     Why  he's    eager   for   it.     [Approaches   Lancia  and 

whispers]  Wait,  Lanica — first 

Eve  No  whispering  ;  stand  back,  Sir  Gerard. 

Roch  Right— stand  back.  [Advancing 

Sir  G  How,  fellow  ? 


PtUJB  GOLD,  47 

Roch  Stand  back  -I've  more  than  life  at  stake.  Now,  Count, 
this  Einaldo  ? 

Lan  Came  with  me  to  England — we  were  seldom  apart.  After  many 
years  he  was   seized  with  a  mortal  sickness — on  his  death-bed  he 
revealed  to  me  a  secret. 
Roch  Go  on. 

Lan  He  had  heard  of  your  fate.     He  confessed  that  he  had  him- 
self slain  Langley  in  a  duel — confessed — ay,  with  what  remorse,  that 
you,  though  innocent,  bore  the  infamy  of  his  deed. 
Roeh  Evelyn  you  hear  ? 

Sir  G  [To  Lancia]  This  is  fraud  !  Did  you  not  feign  to  be  his 
enemy  ? 

Lan  I  saw  you  were,  so  concealed  my  purpose.  Rochford,  you've 
more  to  hear.  I  took  down  Riuahl  •'•=  confession.  He  signed  it  be- 
fore me  and  another  witness  still  living.  An  attested  copy  of  that 
confession  I  have  lately  sent  to  Baden  ;  but  the  original  I  kept. — 
Hoping  to  meet  you  I  have  brought  it — Take,  sir,  the  proof  of  your 
innocence — a  proof  with  which  you  may  dare  the  world. 

Produces  the  written  confession  and  gives  it  to  Rochford. 
Roch  [Glancing  at  paper]  Ay,  and  before  that  world  claim  my  right ! 
A  father's!  Yes.  my  child,  the  stain  is  wiped  away — the  choked 
heart  has  vent.  No  shame,  jio  shrinking,  no  parting  now.  Thine, 
Evelyn,  thine  for  ever !  [Rochford  and  Evelyn  embrace]  I  cannot 
thank  you,  sir  ;  let  this  sight  thank  you.  [To  Lancia. 

Miss  F  But  I  can  thank  him,  and  I  think  one  other  can — Gilbert. 
[She  takes  Gilbert's  hand  and  places  it  in  Evelyn's]  It's  with  your 
sanction,  neighbor? 

Brack.  Why,  yes,  yes,  certainly.     [To  Rochford]     I  congratulate 
you,  sir.     [Aside]     What  a  romance  in  the  family  history  ! 
Miss  F  Still  here,  Sir  Gerard— what  can  detain  you  ? 
Gilb  What,  indeed  ?  seeing  there's  no  longer  a  reputation  to  slan 
der — a  woman  to  insult — or  a  bribe  to  extort. 

Miss  F  You've  fired  your  battery,  Sir  Gerard  ;  hut  the  fort  stands 
you  see. 

Gilb  But  he  can  retrieve  himself  with  a  new  enemy  ;  as  I  came 
in,  I  found  awaiting  him,  certain  skirmishers,  cleverly  posted  round 
the  house — certain  emissaries  from  one  Morley,  a  London  merchant. 
Sir  G  [Aside]  By  Jove,  the  fellow  means  bailiffs. 
Gilb  Don't  fear  ;  a  grateful  country  will  provide  for  a  man  of 
your  talents.  You  will  be  lodged  in  that  royal  mansion,  vulgarly 
called  the  Queen's  Bench. 

Miss  F  The  Queen's  Bench  !  Then  Newgate  is  defrauded. 
Sir  G  Yes,  I  leave  you  the  honors  of  victory.  [To  Miss  Fortescue] 
A  convict  for  your  friend.  [To  Gilbert]  The  convict's  child  for 
your  wifo,  ha !  ha  !  [To  Brackenbury]  To'  you,  sir,  a  proud  addi- 
tion to  your  family  connexions.  For  myself,  I  must  bo  famous,  like 
Xenophon,  in  retreat.  Good  morning.  I  shall  read  of  the  lady's 
marriage,  and  doubtless  of  her  distinguished  parentage  in  the  news- 
papers— Good  morning — good  morning  [Exit,  c. 
Gilb  [Follows  to  the  window  and  watches]  He'll  get  clear  of  the  men 


48  pure  gold. 

after  all.  No,  they  were  in  ambush  -lie  funs -they  pursue — ah,  a 
third  meets  and  stops  htm.  They  close  round — they  have  him — a 
very  short  engagement  and  a  highly  satisfactory  result ! 

Roch  [To  Evelyn]  Ah,  could  thy  mother  see  us;  and  she  may — 
she  may 

Lan  [To  Miss  Fortkscue]  I  said  you  would  approve  of  my  act. 

ilus  F  Andof  the  doer.  Good  friends,  as  to  be  happy  is  the  fash- 
ion, for  once  I  fall  in  with  it.  Oh,  Evelyn,  this  love  of  )'ours!  — 
you  have  done  for  me.  One  cannot  be  long  with  the  sick  and  not 
risk  infection. 

Roch  [Smiling]  From  Evelyn  ? 

31iss  F  Yes ;  I'm  as  far  gone  as  she — a  mere  worn  m — one  of  an 
enslaved  sex — and  so  please  you,  here  is  my  master. 

[Gives  her  In:  id  to  Lancia. 

Lan  Expect  no  mercy  ;  you  have  chosen  your  tyrant. 

Eve  Best  of  friends — you — you  marry — oh,  day  of  j  >y  ! 

Brack  [Aside]  Marry  him  !  and  she  might  have  been  a  Bracken- 
bury. 

Roch  Count,  you  have  given  me  all  that  man  can  jrive  man — I  re- 
joice in  your  joy.  [Then  his  hand. 

Eve  Ah,  there's  a  blessing  in  joy  ;  but  no  less  in  sorrow — sorrow 
that  makes  life  earnest,  [looks  at  Gilbert,]  shames  us  from  our  self 
love,  with  its  poor  vanities— its  mean  angers — and.  through  our 
own  trials,  teaches  sympathy  with  all !  Yes  ;  there  is  virtue  in  the 
fire  that  purines.  Happy  they  who,  like  this  noble  heart,  [pointing 
to  Lancia,]  who  like  thee,  my  father,  [embracing  him,]  come  out  of  it 
—Pure  Gold ! 

Lancia.        Miss  F.         Boch.         Evelyn.        Gilbert.         Brace, 
b.  l. 


THE 


PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 


IN      FIVE      ACTS 


J.    WESTLAND    MARSTON, 

AUTHOR    OF    STRAT1IMOHE,     ANNE    BLAKE,     PHILIP    OF   FRANCE,    TXM 

HEART    AND    THE    WORLD,     GERALD,    AND 

BOROUGH    POLITICS. 


WITH  CASTS  OF  CHARACTERS,  AND  ALL  THE  STAGE  BUSINESS, 


MEMOIR    OF   MISS  E.  LOGAN. 


NEW  YORK: 

SAMUEL    FRENCH,    PUBLISHER; 

122  Nassau  Street,  (Up  Stairs.) 


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(2) 


MEMOIR  OF  MISS  ELIZA  LOGAN. 


Amovo  the  very  many  members  of  the  theatrical  profession,  none  can  lay  claim 
to  higher  social  or  professional  distinction  than  the  lady  whose  name  heads  this 
Sketch.  It  is  with  great  pleasure  we  lay  before  our  patrons  a  brief  narrative  of 
her  life.  To  thousands  her  name  is  as  familiar  as  "  household  words,"  and  we  are 
confident  that  every  person  who  has  ever  seen  her  act,  or  had  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing her  acquaintance,  will  read  with  interest  any  thing  relating  to  her  early  history. 

Miss  Eliza  Logan  was  born  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  in  August,  1830.  Her 
lather,  Mr.  C.  A.  Logan,  was  one  of  the  best  comediaus  that  ever  trod  the  boards. 
5?he  recollection  of  some  of  his  personations,  which  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  wit- 
ness, calls  a  smile  to  our  face  at  this  moment.  He  was  also  an  author  of  high  at- 
tainments, and  several  plays  from  his  pen  are  most  admirable  in  language  and  con- 
struction. As  a  manager,  at  intervals,  for  twenty-five  years,  he  maintained  the 
esteem  and  respect  of  all  with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact.  He  died  suddenly 
in  the  West  some  two  or  three  years  since. 

The  value  of  a  good  education  was  duly  appreciated  by  Mr.  Logan  and  his  excel- 
lent wife,  and  their  children  received  that  careful  culture,  which  the  best  schools 
afford.  Miss  Eliza  received  a  thorough  training  at  an  excellent  academy  in  Lan- 
caster, Pennsylvania.  At  an  early  age  she  exhibited  decided  predilections  for  tha 
stage.  Her  father  immediately  commenced  instructing  her,  delighted  at  the  prom- 
ise she  gave  of  the  possession  of  true  genius.  Under  his  skilfui  tuition,  she  made 
rapid  progress,  and  she  was  finally  permitted  to  make  her  debut  at  the  Chestnut 
Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia.  A  more  successful  "first  appearance"  has  seldom 
been  witnessed.  But  this  handsome  success  did  not  inspire  her  with  an  idea  that 
she  was  already  an  actress  of  the  first  grade.  She  knew  that  a  knowledge  of  the 
minutiae  of  the  profession  was  only  the  result  of  experience,  and,  determined  to  un- 
derstand the  profession  which  she  had  so  ardently  adopted  thoroughly,  she  accepted 
an  engagement  at  Cincinnati,  where  she  performed  for  some  time,  serving  her  term 
of  probation  in  the  ranks  before  aspiring  to  command.  It  is  evident  that  to  her 
father  she  is  much  indebted  for  many  acquisitions  which  greater  experience  than  she 
has  enjoyed  could  alone  procure. 

She  soon  emerged  from  her  comparatively  obscure  and  truly  humble  position,  and 
as  a  star  made  a  tour  of  the  country,  playing  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the 
Union,  gaining  extended  fame,  and  producing  on  the  part  of  managers  a  desire  for 
frequent  visits  from  one  of  the  most  profitable  American  actresses. 

In  May,  1855,  Miss  Logan  played  in  Philadelphia ;  but  perhaps  we  could  not  do 
better  than  make  an  extract  or  two  from  a  long  critique  upon  her  acting,  written  by 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  the  responsible  editor  of  The  City  Item. 

"On  Saturday  evening  last,  this  gifted  actress  concluded  an  engagement  of  twelve 
nights  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre.  Her  success,  considering  the  advanced  period 
of  the  season,  and  the  apathy  which  prevails  among  theatre  goers,  was  extremely 
flattering.  The  house  was  well  filled  every  night,  and  on  several  occasions  crowded; 
the  character  of  the  audiences  was,  moreover,  better  than  usual.  We  doubt  if  a 
star  in  the  country,  excepting,  perhaps,  Mr.  Forrest,  would  have  encountered  such 
unequivocal  success  here  under  the  circumstances.  Miss  Logan  has  now  stood  the 
test  of  an  excellent  engagement  at  the  first  theatre  in  the  country,  and  the  result 
cannot  be  otherwise  than  gratifying  to  herself  and  her  numerous  friends.  Animated 
ly  such  success,  and  cheered  by  the  plaudits  of  true  friends,  her  future  professional 
career  must  be  brilliant  indeed. 

"During  her  engagement  at  the  Walnut,  Miss  Logan  essayed  ten  distinct  charac- 
ters—  Julia,  Bianca,  Margaret  Elmore,  Mrs.  Hatter,  Juliana,  Evadne,  Juliet,  Lucre- 
h«  Borgia,  Parthenia,  and  Adriennc.    There  is  scarcely  a  passion  which  sways  the 

(3) 


t  BIOGRAPHY  OF  MISS  ELIZA  LOGAN. 

human  breast  which  is  not  embodied  in  one  or  more  of  these  characters.  To  delin- 
eate them  all  successfully  requires  no  common  mental  or  physical  powers.  And 
yet  Miss  Logan  passed  triumphantly  through  this  trying  ordeal.  In  each  and  every 
one  of  the  characters  named  she  was  entirely  at  home.  Her  Margaret  Elmore  wa3 
the  finest  representation  of  the  character  that  we  have  seen  for  years.  Her  Bianco. 
was  truly  superior — surpassed  only  in  our  recollection  by  Charlotte  Cushman's. 
The  intensity,  fire  and  passion  displayed  in  her  Lucretia  Borgia  will  loDg  be  remem- 
bered by  all  who  had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  the  impersonation. 

"  Now.  we  might  have  said  all  this,  and  more,  of  Miss  Logan,  in  either  of  our  last 
issues,  hut  we  have  preferred  t<>  wait  until  she  had  left  the  city.  And  we  are  confi- 
dent that  but  few  will  be  found  to  differ  with  us  in  our  estimate  of  the  lady's  abil- 
ities. Any  one  who  had  attended  the  Walnut  regularly  during  the  last  fortnight, 
and  watched  attentively  Miss  Logan's  matured  and  refined  efforts  in  tragedy  and 
comedy,  must,  if  they  are  capable  of  judging,  accord  her  a  high  professional  position. 

"  A  friend,  who  spends  his  winters  in  the  '  Sunny  South,'  tells  us  that  if  we  would 
obtain  an  idea  of  Miss  Logan's  popularity  in  that  quarter,  we  should  see  her  play 
in  Savannah  or  Augusta.  Georgia,  where  the  people  fairly  go  crazy  about  her.  And 
so,  throughout  the  South  and  West,  no  one  on  the  stage  enjoys  a  greater  popularity, 
or  will  draw  better  houses.  The  managers  in  that  quarter  consider  Miss  Logan  one 
of  the  greatest  cards  they  can  obtain.  In  Boston,  too,  she  is  an  immense  favorite, 
and  we  are  glad  to  notice  that  our  managers  have  at  length  discovered  her  surpris- 
ing merit. 

"  We  should  not  omit  stating  that  during  the  last  week  of  Miss  Logan's  engage- 
ment, she  was  waited  upon  by  a  number  of  our  influential  citizens,  who  were  ex- 
tremely desirous  of  tendering  her  a  complimentary  benefit.  Mr.  Marshall,  the  man- 
ager of  the  Broadway  and  Walnut  Street  Theatres,  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  was 
also  very  anxious  to  extend  her  engagement,  but  both  these  flattering  offers  Miss  Lo- 
gan was  compelled  to  decline,  in  consequence  of  imperative  appointments  elsewhere. 
She  will,  we  have  no  doubt,  cherish  these  tokens  of  appreciation,  and  when  Bhe  re- 
turns, which  we  trust  will  be  at  an  early  period  next  season,  an  opportunity  will 
offer  of  consummating  this  considerate  desire  of  her  friends.  In  parting  from  Miss 
Logan  we  wish  her  health,  happiness,  and  a  succession  of  professional  triumphs,  and 
bespeak  for  her  the  kind  attentions  of  our  editorial  brethren  throughout  the 
country." 

The  press  in  every  section  of  the  country  has  ever  been  lavish  in  encomiums  upon 
Miss  Logan's  acting.  An  excellent  idea  of  her  style  may  be  gleaned  from  the  fol- 
lowing paragraph,  which  we  cull  from  a  long  critique  in  the  Boston  Evening  Ga- 
zette :  "  Were  we  to  describe  Miss  Logan  to  one  who  had  never  seen  her,  we  do 
not  think  that  we  could  convey  a  better  idea  of  her  ability  than  by  styling  her  a 
wholesome  actress;  one  whom  yon  do  not  witness  with  fear  and  trembling,  lest  she 
break  down,  but  who  creates  a  sympathy  by  the  physical  power  she  possesses  to  do- 
liver,  with  pathos  and  force,  those  lengths  which  so  often  tax  others  of  less  worth." 
To  this  we  would  add  that,  correct  in  her  readings,  and  intense  in  her  delivery  of 
impassioned  passages.  Miss  Logan  never  fails  to  approach  a  point  with  decision, 
though,  by  her  originality,  she  sometimes  disappoints  those  who  have  seeu  the  former 
representatives  of  Evadne,  Margaret  Elmore,  Julia,  Pauline,  &c,  and  who  are  pre- 
pared for  conventional  climaxes,  which  she  studiously  avoids,  preferring  to  step  aside 
from  the  beaten  path,  and  leave  to  impulse  what  others  owe  to  art.  In  short,  we 
think  the  great  beauty  of  her  performance  is  the  wonderful  accuracy  in  the  detail 
of  the  character  she  represents ;  the  accuracy  with  which  she  modulates  the  em- 
phasis of  every  word ;  her  natural,  easy  gesticulation ;  the  expressiveness  of  her 
countenance,  the  truthfulness  of  her  conception,  and  the  perfect  manner  of  its  ex- 
ecution.    We  unhesitatingly  rank  her  among  the  first  tragic  actresses  of  the  day. 

In  the  private  walks  of  life  Miss  Logan  sustains  a  reputation  surpassed  by  none. 
The  death  of  her  father  left  to  her  charge  the  support  of  a  mother  and  a  family  of 
younger  sisters.  How  nobly  she  has  toiled  it  would  not  become  us  to  state.  Her 
career  thus  far  has  been  unwaveringly  onward  ;  and,  with  the  blessing  of  health, 
there  is  no  limit  to  the  height  in  the  dramatic  world  to  which  she  may  not  yet 
attain. 


THE   PATRICIAN'S   DAUGHTER. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  —  Library  in  Lyntcrne  Castle.    The  Earl  and  Lady  Mabel 

discovered,  tcith  a  book. 

Mabel,     (l.  h.)     Yes,  my  lord. 
But  have  you  read  this  scene  ? 

Earl.     (r.  h.)     I  have  not. 
But  the  point  in  hand,  dear  Mabel ! 

Mabel.     'Tis  full  of  mirth  and  sprightly  incident, 
And  keen,  bright  satire,  through  all  which  the  heart 
Breathes  truth  and  sympathy  !     O,  how  I  love 
To  track  a  noble  soul  in  masquerade  ! 

Earl.     If  it  so  please  you,  Mabel,  that  I  wait 
TJntil  your  raptures  shall  expend  themselves, 
I  am  content.     (He  arranges  papers.) 

(Mabel,  after  a  pause,  rises  and  gives  book  to  Earl,  stands  by  side  of 
Earl,  who  is  seated,  R.  H.,  by  table.) 

Mabel.     You  think,  dear  father,  that  I  trifle.     No  ! 
You  question  of  a  lover  ;  I  reply 
By  comment  on  a  book  —  themes  separate, 
As  it  may  seem  to  you,  but  in  my  mind 
Blended  together  ;  for  the  qualities 
This  book  discloses  I  would  have  inspire 
The  man  to  whom  my  tributary  soul 
Should  render  its  allegiance. 

Earl.     {Taking  the  book.)     Poor  child!   the  author  of  the  book 
you  laud, 
This  limner  of  the  mind's  fantastic  dreams, 
Long  ere  old  age  found  his  art  profitless, 
Eorswore  his  troth  to  fancy,  —  and  died  rich. 

Mabel.     His  book  is  henceforth  sealed  to  eyes  of  mine. 
O,  how  degraded  is  the  venal  soul 
Chartered  by  its  Creator  to  be  free, 
Yet  putting  on  the  great  world's  livery, 
Not  the  less  menial  for  its  golden  fringe  ! 

Earl.     Thou  art  enthusiastic,  my  fair  girl ! 
I  blame  thee  not ;  those  who  aspire  too  high 
Best  nearer  heaven  than  those  who  ne'er  aspired. 
I  love  thee,  Mabel. 

(5) 


8  THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

Thou  summest  up  for  me  all  human  ties 

Save  those  which  link  me  to  my  country's  weaL 

Thy  mother  lives  in  thee,  and  in  some  sort 

Thou  art  my  age's  bride  as  well  as  daughter  ; 

To  lose  thee  were  a  second  widowhood. 

My  only  child  !  sole  tenant  of  the  heart 

Thy  brothers,  did  they  live,  would  share  with  thee. 

Mabel.     (Embracing  him.)     O,  my  dear  lord  and  father,  well  I 
know 
Your  love,  your  patient  and  forgiving  love, 
To  your  oft  wayward  Mabel !     Sir,  your  will 
Shall  guide  me  in  this  matter ;  but  command, 
And  I  will  wed  Sir  Everard. 

Earl.     At  no  command  unsanctioned  by  thy  heart 
Would  I  require  thee  wed  ;  yet  would  I  speak 
Of  poor  Sir  Everard  a  word  or  two, 
And  leave  to  time  and  thy  own  heart  the  judgment. 
He  loves  thee  well,  is  generous  and  kind. 

Mabel.     He  is  most  kind  ;  he  is  most  generous. 

Earl.     And  though  he  be  no  genius,  hath  fine  taste 
In  arts  that  charm  a  woman's  eye  and  ear ; 
Hath  an  accomplished  mind  and  graceful  bearing. 

Mabel.     That  all  who  know  Sir  Everard  will  confess. 

Earl.     Is  rich. 

Mabel.     He  has  the  broadest  lands  in  "Warwickshire. 

Earl.     And  has  the  one  great  requisite  —  high  birth. 

Mabel.     Most  true  ;  and  yet  I  hope,  possessing  these, 
He  has  no  more  than  I ;  for  generous, 
I  trust,  I  am,  and  riches  and  descent 
I  know  we  have,  surpassing  even  his  own. 

Earl.     And  holdest  thou  these  things  of  light  account ! 
Methinks  they  should  be  potent  arguments. 

Mabel.     True  ;  but  the  heart  ne'er  guides  its  choice  by  logic. 
There  is  nought  rational  in  love ;  it  hath, 
Above  all  reason,  high  prerogative. 
Who  is  there  that  hath  loved  because  he  ought  ? 
The  meet,  the  proper,  and  the  dutiful 
Belong  to  the  head's  lore ;  above  all  rule 
Is  the  heart's  passion,  gushing  like  a  stream, 
In  its  exuberant  nature  finding  law 
For  all  it  doth,  and  pouring  oft,  alas  ! 
Its  unblessed  course  along  the  wilderness 
Which  reason  would  have  taught  it  to  avoid. 

Earl.     Then  Mabel  is  in  love  ;  for  never,  sure, 
Was  one  who  valued  reason  less  than  she. 

(Earl  rises,  comes  forward,  R.  h.,  Mabel,  l.  h.) 

Mabel.     Not  so  ;  for,  although  reason  makes  not  love, 
Love  may  consist  with  reason  ;  am  I  right  ? 
Now,  if  you  grant  me  audience,  I  will 
Possess  you  of  my  secret  thoughts,  till  now 
Nursed  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  heart. 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

He  whom  my  will  shall  for  its  king  elect 

Must  bring  me  something  more  than  that  I  have ; 

Women  who  marry  seldom  act  but  once  ; 

Their  lot  is,  ere  they  wed,  obedience 

Unto  a  father ;  thenceforth  to  a  husband  ; 

But  in  the  one  election  which  they  make, 

Choice  of  a  mate  for  life  and  death,  and  heaven, 

They  may  be  said  to  act.     The  man  they  wed 

Is  as  the  living  record  of  the  deed, 

Their  one  momentous  deed.     If  he  be  base, 

It  veils  their  deed  with  shame ;  if  he  be  great, 

Encircles  it  with  glory  ;  and  if  good, 

Haloes  it  with  religion.     Wouldst  thou  know 

Whom  I  would  have  to  be  my  husband,  sire  ? 

In  brief  terms  I  will  sketch  him.     He  shall  be 

High  born  ;  handsome,  I'd  rather,  but  at  least 

With  features  lit  up  by  the  sacred  light 

Which  marks  the  elect  band  of  noble  men, 

Whose  history  is  the  world's,  and  whose  high  names. 

Linked  close  with  empires,  sound  their  synonymes  ; 

With  eye  that  quails  not  in  the  war ;  writh  voice 

That  thrills  the  popular  ear,  and  o'erawes  senates; 

And  of  a  wide,  ceaseless  benevolence, 

Bounded  but  by  the  walls  of  the  great  world  ; 

And  O,  whene'er  affection  breathed  his  name, 

Or  mind  did  homage  to  it,  should  my  heart 

Bush  back  to  the  bright  hour  when  first  I  chose  him, 

Saying  it  was  my  act  ! 

Earl.     Well,  well,  my  sweet  one  !  all  I  would  require 
Is,  that  the  proffered  love  you  cannot  take, 
You  should  put  back  with  thoughtful  gentleness. 
I  censure  not  your  nature.     Some  there  be, 
Of  a  romantic  spirit  like  your  own, 
Have  thought  all  decencies  chimerical, 
And  plighted  faith  to  rude,  plebeian  swains, 
That  they  might  thereby  show  contempt  of  station, 
And  all  that  wisdom  holds  inviolate  : 
But  this  from  you  I  fear  not ;  you  have  been 
Nurtured  too  well ;  you  are  too  much  my  daughter. 

Mabel.     You  do  me  justice,  sir ;   nor  think  that  I 
Will  e'er  disgrace  our  lineage  ;  whom  I  wed 
High  in  descent,  noble  in  mind,  shall  be. 

Earl.     Thou  art  my  best  beloved  ;  but  leave  me  now  — 
(Earl  goes  to  chair,  R.  h.,  at  table  ;  Mabel  prepares  to  go  off 
through  centre  doors.) 
Stay,  Mabel ;  one  word  more  with  thee  !     To-morrow 
A  visitor  named  Mordaunt  tarries  here ; 
Perchance  a  week  or  twain,  as  it  may  be. 
Show  him  all  kindness  ;  though  of  obscure  birth, 
He  is  no  common  man  —  may  serve  me  much. 

Mabel.     (By  Earl's  side.)     Mean  you  the  Mordaunt  ? 

Earl.     I  did  not  know  his  fame  had  risen  so  high 


8  THE    PATRICIAN  8    DAUGHTER. 

As  to  make  him  the  Mordaunt ;  but  I  think 
We  mean  the  same  man  ;  he  whose  eloquence 
Hath  stirred  the  commons  so. 

Mabel.     My  Mordaunt  is  a  poet. 

Earl.     True  !  he  has 
That  failing,  I  believe,  and  'tis  a  great  one 
In  public  men ;  but  time  will  cure  him  on't. 

Mabel.     Fie,  fie,  my  lord  !     Do  we  not  mourn  when  time 
Plants  wrinkles  on  the  brow  ?  and  shall  we  joy 
"When  his  touch  chills  the  freshness  of  the  heart  ? 
Poi  such  is  poetry. 

Earl.     Be  it  so,  chit !      (Rises  and  comes  forward,  R.  H.) 
I'll  not  contest  the  point ;  as  to  this  stranger, 
Let  his  reception  be  most  courteous  ;  (Crosses  to  L.  h.) 
I  would  we  could  persuade  aunt  Lydia 
To  doff  her  stateliness  for  some  few  days  ; 
It  must  be  looked  to,  let  us  seek  her,  sweet. 

Mabel.     With  all  my  heart ;  —  the  Mordaunt !     I  am  ready. 

(Exeunt  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Scene  II.  —  Mordaunt' s  House. 

Enter  Colville,  Deancourt,  Mordaunt,  Heartwell,  and  Lister, 
c.  n.,  down  R.  H.  and  L.  n. 

Dean.     Decide  for  one  of  us. 

Col.     (r.  c.)     My  yacht's  the  tiling  ! 
After  your  labors  you  need  change  of  scene  — 
Almost  of  element,  which  you  shall  have 
When,  the  dull  land  forgotten,  our  light  skiff 
The  Mediterranean  skims. 

Dean.     There's  nothing  beats 
A  good  old  English  house  —  the  morning  rides ; 
A  sweep,  perchance,  o'er  hill  and  hedge  to  sound 
Of  the  enlivening  bugle  ;  then  at  night, 
The  merry  party,  and  the  bright  fireside  ; 
The  good  old  games  and  stories. 

Heart.     Gentlemen, 
Duties  are  sometimes  pleasures.     Perhaps  Mordaunt 
May  hold  the  cares  of  public  life  too  dear 
To  wish  a  respite,  though  it  be  recess. 

Lister.     We  cannot  spare  him  from  us. 

Col.     I  will  take  no  answer  but  his  own. 

Dean.     Nor  I ! 

Mor.     (c.)     Good  friends, 
Hold  me  excused,  I  pray  you.     Were  my  will 
To  arbitrate  this  matter,  I  would  go 
Delightedly  with  both  ;  but,  as  it  is, 

I  stand  engaged  already  to  Heartwell.     That  reminds  me      [apart.') 
To  ask  your  eye  for  this.     (Presenting  a  letter  which  Heartwell  read* 

Dean.    If  it  be  so 


THE    PATRICIAN  S    DAUGHTER.  9 

There's  nothing  left  but  to  regret  your  absence, 
And  wish  you  well  in  ours.     Farewell  till  spring. 

Col.     Adieu,  dear  Mordaunt. 

Mor.     Heaven  be  with  you,  friends. 

Lister.     I'll  walk  with  you. 

Mor.     What !  all  take  flight  together  ? 

Heart.     No  ;  I'll  stay  in  very  pity  to  your  solitude. 
{To  the  others.)     I  trust  ere  you  leave  London  we  shall  meet. 

{Exeunt  Lister,  Colville,  and  Deancourt,  r.     Heartwell 
carelessly  folds  up   and  returns  the  letter.     Mordaunt  brings 
down  chairs.) 
I  had  expected  this ;  you  are  a  prize 
To  him  who  shall  have  wit  to  capture  you ; 
But  who  is  he  ?     Not  this  complacent  earl ! 
This  sleek  and  courteous  earl !     You  must  have  smiled, 
My  Edgar,  at  each  gracious  period. 
He  has  a  high  esteem  for  you,  forsooth  ! 
Admires  your  views,  your  mind's  great  scope  ! 
And  though  he  sees  in  all  your  daring  plans 
Unsoundness,  here  and  there  temerity, 
He  has  a  marvellous  respect  for  them, 
And  being  at  this  moment  respited 
From  cares  of  state,  some  portion  of  his  leisure 
He'd  have  your  sweet  society  engross  ! 
Well,  in  what  terms  was  your  denial  couched  ? 

Mor.     (r.  h.)     Denial !     On  what  grounds  should  I  refuse 
Such  kindly  tendered  courtesy  ? 

Heart.     I  did  not  think  thine  eye,  so  quick  to  pierce 
Public  hypocrisy  through  all  the  glare 
With  which  convention  decks  it,  could  have  been 
Dazzled  by  one  man's  hollow  compliment ; 
I  charge  thee,  spurn  this  specious  show  of  friendship. 

Mor.     Why  call  it  specious,  ere  you  prove  it  so  ? 

Heart.     If  you  seek  evidence  that  would  convict, 
According  to  the  strictest  forms  of  law, 
This  man  of  guile,  why,  I  have  none  to  give ; 
But  on  plain  likelihood  and  inference 
My  censure  rests.     Mark  me !  two  years  ago 
Had  any  to  another  breathed  thy  name, 
His  fellow  had  made  question,  "  Of  whom  speak  you?  " 
"  What  hath  he  writ,  said,  done,  or  in  what  way 
Approved  himself?  "  and  had  he  been  informed 
Of  thy  capacity,  not  then  confirmed 
By  the  world's  attestation,  he  had  cried, 
Less  in  encouragement  than  mockery, 
"  One  of  your  rising  men  !     Town's  full  of  them." 
But  now  thou  art  a  theme  of  public  talk  — 
A  name  not  only  metropolitan, 
But  known  in  every  district  of  the  isles. 

Mor.     Thanks  for  your  eulogy  ;  but  whither  tends  it  ? 

Heart.     Faith  !  to  this  : 


10  THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

Minds  of  thine  order  come  not  every  year, 
Nor  are  they  grown  in  clusters  ;  instruments 
Of  power  !  if  they  he  true,  of  destiny  ! 
Apostles  to  their  age  !  the  virtuous 
Hail  them  as  saviours,  while  the  common  herd 
Of  coward  knaves  grow  paralyzed  with  fear, 
Expectant  that  their  day  is  passing  hence  ! 
Now,  while  the  issues  undetermined  hang 
Between  the  just  and  base,  if  one  step  forth, 
Wily,  and  smooth  of  speech,  and  can  arrest 
The  great  man's  march  a  moment,  turn  his  eye 
Upon  the  glitter  of  some  costly  bribe, 
It  may  be  that  he  spurns  it,  and  it  may  be 
That  he  becomes  Iscariot  to  his  cause. 

Mor.     Nay  ;  speak  out,  if  you  would  call  me  traitor  ! 

Heart.     I  mean  not  so  to  name  you.     I  do  but  say 
Beware  the  subtle  courtier. 

Mor.     The  grounds 
Of  your  suspicion  ?     Why  do  you  condemn  him  ? 

Heart.     Is  he  not  the  sworn  foe  of  our  party  ? 

Mor.     I  have  no  party.      {Both  rise.) 

Heart.     Rapidly  the  poison  works ;  and  yet  it  is  not  strange 
That  one  so  loving  to  his  party's  foe 
Should  soon  disclaim  his  old  associates. 

Mor.     Where  is  your  warrant,  sir, 
To  bait  me  thus  ?     I  say  I  have  no  party. 
You  and  your  friends  of  late  have  striven  hard 
For  certain  end  which  I  approved  ;  'twas  fit 
That  I  should  aid  you  —  so  far  travel  with  you, 
As  one  road  served  us  both.     Therefore  have  I 
Entered  in  league  with  you  ?  or  am  I  bound 
To  follow  where  your  trumpet  blows,  and  fight 
With  whom  you  list  to  bid  me  ?     Have  I  sworn 
To  shut  my  eyes  to  all  the  greatness  grows 
In  one  half  of  the  empire  ?     That's  the  oath 
Ta'en  by  the  partisan.     ( Crosses,  L.  h.) 

Heart.     You  speak  right  loftily.     Perchance  your  speech 
May  couch  itself  in  humbler  tones  when  meant 
For  the  earl's  ear. 

Mor.     Sir,  I  have  known  you  long  ;  respected  you ; 
And  it  may  be  have  served  you  heretofore  ; 
And  not  on  slight  occasion  would  I  wear 
The  stranger's  carriage  to  you  ;  but  take  heed. 
You  speak  as  if  I  were  a  parasite, 
A  hireling,  an  apostate  :  had  my  father 
Broached  such  surmise  of  me,  it  had  gone  far 
In  recollection  of  that  one  dishonor, 
To  merge  all  kinder  memory. 

Heart.     I  seek  your  love 
No  longer  than  pure  friendship's  elements 
Are  fruitful  in  your  nature.     Let  me  ask 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  11 

If  it  be  meet  if  cue  like  you  should  wait 

For  an  occasional  condescending  smile 

From  this  proud  nobleman  ;  or  haply  make, 

Through  ignorance  of  unaccustomed  forms, 

Mirth  for  his  haughty  daughter.     But  your  pardon. 

Perchance  you  aim  at  greatness,  and  will  deign 

Honor  the  Lady  Mabel  with  your  hand. 

Mor.     Peace,  sir.     Your  language  holds  not  with  my  mood. 
By  all  report  upon  the  face  of  earth, 
No  fairer  nor  more  noble  creature  moves 
Than  Ihis  same  Lady  Mabel ;  for  the  rest, 
The  man  who  hath  credentials  in  his  soul, 
Avouching  its  immortal  ancestry, 
Presumes  but  little,  even  if  he  seek 
Alliance  with  the  proudest  of  the  earth. 
Is  it  your  creed,  sir,  that  in  righteous  scales 
The  name  outweighs  the  man  ?     Shame  on  sucn  doctrine  . 

(Crosses  ta  R.) 

Heart.     Nay,  shame  on  thee,  who  dar'st  thus  to  upbraid 
An  age  'tis  fit  that  thou  shouldst  venerate  ! 
Farewell,  sir  !     Should  we  ever  meet  again, 
It  will  be  in  that  deepest  of  all  strangeness 
Which  grows  'twixt  those  who  have  loved  once,  and  love  not. 

(Exit  Heartwell,  r.  h    1  E.) 

Mor.     So  friendship  passes.     Well,  I  will  not  seek 
A  heart  to  rule  in,  if  affection's  sway 
Depend  on  paying  dues  to  interest. 
I'll  not  believe  that  Heartwell  judged  aright. 
This  noble  means  me  fairly  —  will  not  dare 
To  use  me  for  his  tool.     Yet,  if  he  do  — 
O,  if  he  do  !  —  my  heart  heaves  at  the  thought, 
So  that  I  fear  and  quake  before  myself. 
There  is  within  me  that  quick  sense  of  shame 
Which,  being  stung,  would  spur  me  on  to  vengeance, 
Although  the  path  were  fire  !     And  I  have,  too, 
That  in  my  nature  which  would  make  me  slave 
To  genuine  kindness.     I'll  deal  with  the  world 
As  the  world  deals  with  me,  —  if  well,  its  friend,  — 
If  otherwise,  —  but  for  the  day,  'tis  said, 
Sufficient  is  the  evil.  {Exit  R.  H.  1  E.) 


ACT  H. 

Scene  L  —  Handsome  Drawing  Room  in  Lynterne  Castle. 
Mordaunt  discovered. 

Mor.     Rumor  has  not  o'erdrawn  her.     She  is  rich 
In  beauty,  and  in  that  which  passeth  beauty, 


12  THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

Or  is,  perchance,  its  source  —  a  glorious  soul. 

I've  known  her  but  a  month,  and  yet  she  seems, 

As  their  own  light,  familiar  to  mine  eyes. 

Would  that  I 

Were  sprung  of  loftly  lineage.     That's  unworthy. 

Was  not  my  father  tender,  constant,  uprights 

And  shall  I  wronghis  homely,  honest  virtues 

By  vain  repinings  at  my  humble  lot  ? 

Heaven  sees  not  with  our  eyes.     That's  well  at  least. 

Enter  Mabel,  c.  d.  l.  h.  down  l.  h.,  in  a  fashionable  morning  dress, 
with  fancy  work. 

Mabel.     Bright  morrow  to  you,  sir  !     'Tis  a  fair  change 
From  last  eve's  tempest. 

(About  to  take  chair  ;  Mordaunt  puts  it  forward  ;  Mabel  seated 
on  l.  h  ;  Mordaunt  stands  on  R.  h.^ 

Mor.     'Twas  a  stormy  eve. 

Mabel.  And  yet  I  never  knew  a  briefer  one  ■ 
For  that  I  must  thank  you,  and  the  sweet  tale, 
In  listening  which  the  hour*  like  minutes  sped 

Mor.     Thank  yoa  ladv  : 

Mabel.     Yet  I  somewnat  marve» 
That  you,  whose  life  is  chiefly  dedicate 
To  grave  state  policy,  should  yet  beguile 
Your  leisure  with  the  poet's  simple  art. 

Mor.     What  is  the  end  of  all  true  policy,  if  it  be  not 
To  work  out  poetry  in  act  ?  to  feel 
A  deep  and  constant  love  for  human  kind  ; 
A  sense  of  beauty's  presence,  not  alone 
In  lofty  show,  but  in  its  latent  haunts, 
Which  few  investigate  —  the  humble  hut 
And  bosom  meanly  clad  ;  worship  of  justice  ; 
The  warm  emotions  of  an  unchecked  nature, 
Which  rises,  as  by  instinct,  against  wrong  : 
These  are  the  elements  of  poetry. 
Is  that  man  fit  to  be  a  statesman,  think  you, 
Whose  heart  is  stranger  to  them  ? 

Mabel.     After  I  retired, 
Your  tale  dwelt  on  my  mind,  moved  me  to  tears  — 
Those  sweet  and  tender  tears  that  speak  not  pain, 
But  soothe  whoever  sheds  them.     In  my  dreams 
The  maid  whose  fate  you  told  was  present  still. 
O,  would  that  I  had  lived  in  ancient  days, 
The  times  of  old  romance !     Do  you  not  think 
I  should  have  been  a  heroine  ? 

Mor.     Why  not  be  one  now  ? 

Mabel.     There  is  no  scope  for  it.     (  Crosses,  L.  H.) 
O,  would  that  I  had  been  the  worshipped  one 
Of  some  devoted  Troubadour,  half  knight, 


THE    PA.TBICIAN'8    DAUGHTER.  13 

Half  minstrel.     My  sire,  a  baron, 

Irascible  and  proud,  perchance  commands 

That  I  forswear  my  troth.     I  cannot  do  it. 

Straight  in  some  chamber,  tapestried  and  lone, 

I  am  confined,  armed  guards  before  my  door. 

I  pen  a  billet.     O,  sweet  traveller, 

Into  whose  care  these  tidings,  from  the  hand 

Of  an  unhappy  maid,  shall  come,  haste  thee 

To  Sieur —  "  De  Lacy," — that  shall  be  his  name, — 

And  tell  him  in  this  castle's  eastern  tower 

His  Eleanora  lies  a  prisoner  — 

For  his  dear  love.     I  drop  my  scroll ;  its  words 

Are  borne  to  my  brave  Troubadour.     Some  night, 

While  I  sit  gazing  at  the  placid  moon, 

Soft  music  floats 

Around  my  lattice  —  quick  I  open  it ! 

O,  joy  !  'tis  he !  —  he  scales  the  wall,  secures, 

Fast  by  the  casement,  his  elastic  stair 

"Which  straightway  I  descend  —  I'm  on  the  earth  — 

I'm  on  my  steed  :  away  !  away  we  fly ! 

I  and  my  Troubadour,  (crosses  R.  H. ;)  and  in  the  morn 

My  hand  rewards  my  brave  deliverer ! 

What  think  you,  sir,  is  not  my  tale  well  told  ? 

It  is  my  first  attempt.     You  do  not  smile ! 

Mor.     Alas,  sweet  lady  !  mournful  thoughts  were  mine. 

Mabel.     Why  mournful  ? 

Mor.     Your  tale  is  blithe,  and  goes  off  trippingly : 
I  make  no  question  of  your  constancy, 
Your  enterprise,  your  courage  ;  but  methinks 
You  scarce  had  borne  the  part  you  paint  so  well. 

Mabel.     Wherefore  not  ?     O  for  one  year 
Of  the  romantic  past,  that  I  might  prove 
Myself,  in  your  despite,  a  heroine.     ( Takes  chair,  R.  h.) 

Mor.     I  have  known  heroines  in  this  modern  time,  — 
Ay,  there  are  homesteads  which  have  witnessed  deeds 
That  battle  fields,  with  all  their  bannered  pomp, 
Have  little  to  compare  with.     Life's  great  play 
May,  so  it  have  an  actor  great  enough, 
Be  well  performed  upon  a  humble  stage. 

Mabel.     Your  discourse  goes  far  to  make  me  look  with  kinder  eyes 
Upon  the  present  time. 

Mor.     The  forms  of  the  heroic  change  from  age  to  age  ; 
The  spirit  of  the  forms  remains  the  same : 
Your  heroine  of  old,  in  love's  behalf, 
Would  dare  imprisonment  and  venture  flight, 
Though  near  her  files  of  lances  were  arrayed. 
Your  modern  heroine,  in  love's  behalf, 
Will  often  dare  hostility  as  dread. 
Not  seldom  you  will  meet  a  maiden  whose  heart 
Was  pledged  to  one  of  lowly  heritage, 
But  of  high  qualities,  that  well  atoned 


14  THE    PATRICIAN  S    DAUGHTER. 

The  churlish  lot  of  Fortune.     Enmity 
From  haughty  parents,  exile  from  the  sphere 
Had  been  her  own  from  birth,  chill  penury, 
And  other  ills  as  weighty,  have  conspired 
Against  her  love,  and  yet  she  has  avowed  it, 
And  cherished  it  as  life.     O  Lady  Mabel 

Mabel.     AVhy  do  you  pause? 

Mor.     I  fear  I  weary  you. 

Mabel.     O,  no,  for  such  a  heroine 

Mor.     What  would  you  say  of  her  ? 

Mabel.     That  albeit  she  had  acted  indiscreetly ; 
For  the  high  love  that  caused  her  so  to  act, 
She  should  be  gently  censured  —  not  cast  out. 

Mor-     And  her  lover  ? 

Mabel.     Nay,  I  know  not  what  to  say  of  him. 

Mor.     I  knew  a  lover  once  (takes  chair,  L.  H.) 
Whose  heart  had  poured  its  riches  at  the  shrine 
Of  one  whose  lot  ranked  higher  than  his  own, 
In  the  wise  world's  esteem ;   and  this  he  knew, 
Yet  could  he  not  recall  to  his  lone  breast 
The  feelings  thence  allured.     She  was  their  home, 
And  —  all  beside  was  foreign. 

Mabel.     And  she  loved  him  ? 

Mor.     His  love  was  silent,  and  dared  scarce  intrude 
Upon  her  sight.     He  prayed  for  her  —  he  blessed  her  — 
He  wept  for  her  ;  but  she  heard  not  his  words, 
Nor  saw  his  tears  ;  for  they  were  breathed  and  shed 
In  sacred  solitude.     He  thought  of  angels 
Who  nightly  to  the  sleeper's  couch  repair, 
But  vanish  ere  he  wakens. 

Mabel.     Did  he  not  lay  h;.s  heart  open  to  her  ? 

Mor.     As  I  said,  he  was  of  lower  rank  than  she,  and  feared 
That  she  might  scorn  him. 

Mabel.     Scorn  such  fervent  worship  ? 
Had  she  so  done,  she  were  the  thing  to  scorn. 

Mor.     You  had  not  spurned  him,  then  ? 

Mabel.     I  cannot  dream 
What  I  have  said  to  move  you.     O,  this  friend  ! 
'Tis  like  you  loved  him  as  a  very  brother, 
And  own  a  debt  to  all  who  pity  him. 
Your  story  interests.     How  ended  it  ? 
And  was  this  long  since  ? 

Mor.     It  is  very  strange. 
I  cannot  call  the  time  to  mind.     I  know 
The  truth  of  what  I  tell,  but  nothing  more. 

Enter  the  Eakl  and  Lady  Lydia,  c.  d.  L.  H. 

Lydia.  (e.  h.)  Not  out  yet,  Mabel  ?     Should  you  thus  permit 
The  freshness  of  the  morning  to  escape  ? 
It  counts  three  hours  since  noon. 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  15 

Mabel.  Is  it  so  late  ?  —  (To  Mordaunt.)  Do  you  ride  with  us,  sir  ? 
(  To  the  Earl.)  And  you  ?     You  must  ; 
I  know  you  will ;  these  are  your  holidays. 

Earl.     (l.  h.)     I  may  not,  sweetest. 

Mabel.     No  !  —  {To  Mordaunt-')  You  then  will  be 
Our  single  cavalier. 

Earl.     I  fear,  dear  Mabel, 
I  must  assert  a  prior  claim  to  Mordaunt. 
We've  themes  of  pressing  import  to  discuss. 

Mabel,     (r.  c.)   Tis  very  late.     I  will  not  ride  to-day. 

Lydia.     You  will. 

Mabel.     I  think  you  said  that  it  was  late. 

Lydia.     (Aside  to  Mabel.)     Go  for  my  sake. 

Mabel.     Well,  if  it  please  you,  aunt. 

Earl.     Adieu  !    (Going.) 

Mor.     A  pleasant  morning. 

Lydia.     Thank  you,  thank  you. 

(Exeunt  Earl  and  Mordaunt,  c.  d.  l.  h.  Lady  Lydia  walks 
after  them,  and  then  advances  to  R.  h.  of  Mabel,  who  is  seated 
in  centre.) 

Lydia.     Mabel,  you  love  that  man  ! 

Mabel.     Love  whom  ?  Sir  Everard  ? 

Lydia.     This  is  evasion. 
I  know  you  have  refused  Sir  Everard  ; 
I  say  you  love  this  Mordaunt. 

Mabel.     I  fail  to  comprehend  you. 

Lydia.     Wilt  deny  it  ? 

Mabel.     (Haughtily  rises  from  chair.)     It    doth  not  need    denial 
Edgar  Mordaunt ! 

Lydia.     Pardon  me  ! 
I  did  but  jest.     I  knew  you  loved  him  not ; 
It  was  impossible,  for  he  hath  nought 
In  station,  fortune,  or  in  qualities 
That  can  excite  esteem,  far  less  affection. 

Mabel.     O,  now  methinks  you  are  somewhat  harsh. 

Lydia.     Harsh  !  would  you  have  me  patient  in  my  speech  ? 
I  am  beside  myself  to  see  a  man 
Whose  birth  had  fitted  well  a  servitor 
Thus  licensed  to  invade  patrician's  bounds, 
And  wearing  in  them  the  familiar  air 
Of  one  inured  to  dignity  ! 

Mabel.     Good  aunt,  men  three  relations  hold  to  dignity  : 
By  gradual  use  some  grow  inured  to  it, 
And  some  are  born  to  it ;  but  there  be  those 
Born  of  it,  nurtured  of  its  elements ; 
With  them  nobility  is  personal, 
And  they  must  die  ere  it  can. 

Lydia.     In  which  rank  place  you  Mordaunt  ? 

Mabel.     In  the  last. 

Lydia.     What  fantasy  hath  sealed  thine  eyelids  close ! 
Canst  thou  not  read  the  obvious  history 


16  THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER. 

Of  an  ambitious  and  time-serving  man  ? 
What  doth  he  here  ■who  -was  thy  father's  foe 
I) pon  all  public  questions  ?     Trust  s*e,  Mabel, 
He  is  of  those  who,  by  exciting  speech 
And  persevering  effort,  make  their  names 
Of  value  in  the  mart  of  policy, 
And  sell  them  to  the  man  -who  offers  most. 
.  Mabel.     Madam,  'tis  false  —  his  heart  is  virtue's  home, 
His  deeds  her  witnesses  —  O,  foully  false  !     {Crosses  to  it.  h.) 

Lydia.     This  is  unmaidenly  and  insolent ! 
Does  no  shame  flush  thy  cheek  ?  or  wherefore  is  it 
Thou  shouldst  forget  all  deference  to  me 
In  favor  of  a  stranger  ? 

Mabel.     Because  he  is  a  stranger, 
And  has  no  friend  to  spurn  back  calumny, 
When  those  whose  guest  he  is  forget  the  rights 

Owing  to  hospitality  and  justice.     {Crosses  to  L.  B.      Throws  herself 
into  chair  in  L.  H.) 

Lydia.     Under  pretence  of  what  is  due  to  justice 
Your  passion  flaunts  it  bravely : 
Henceforth  suit  your  bearing 
More  to  the  decent,  less  to  the  fantastic, 
Or  I  will  to  your  father,  and  require 
His  comment  on  your  conduct. 

Mabel.     Do  you  threaten  ?     (Rises.) 

Lydia.     Ay !  threaten.     Wherefore  not  ? 

Mabel.     I  am  amazed  you  can,  so  strange  it  seems 
That  you,  whose  words  suffice  to  show  what  you  are, 
Should  dare  rebuke  what  I  am. 
I  wonder  not  you  value  station  so : 
It  is  but  a  poor  treasure  in  itself, 
Yet  becomes  rich  when  'tis  the  sole  possession. 

Lydia.     (Aside.)     I  have  gone  too  far.     Mabel,  could  you  have 
looked 
Into  my  heart,  you  would  have  spared  me  this. 

Mabel.     (Crosses  to  l.  c.)     Could  you  have  sounded  mine,  I  do 
not  think 
You  would  have  ventured  to  this  length  of  insult.     (Retires  to  table, 
l.  H.  up  a  little.) 

Lydia.     Insult !    Mabel  !    And    is  your  father's   sister's   love    so 
strange, 
That  when  it  would  advise  you,  guard  you,  save  you, 
You  should  miscall  it  thus  ?     Perhaps  my  zeal 
Took  an  impatient  tone,  but  did  not  need 
The  deep  rebuke  it  suffered. 

Mabel.     (Coming  to  her.)     I  have  been  wrong,  dear  aunt!  but  still 
I  say, 
You  judge  poor  Mordaunt  harshly. 

Lydia.     I  think  he  is  ambitious. 

Mabel.     What's  he  that  is  not  so  ?     Ambition,  aunt, 


the  patrician's  daughteb.  17 

Is  instinct  in  great  minds,  even  as  to  soar 
Is  nature  to  the  eagle. 

Lydia.     This  plausible  and  general  reasoning,  however  just, 
Meets  not  the  special  instance  ;  beside  all  which,  but  note 
How  much  he  adds,  by  glances,  motions,  sighs, 
Smiles,  even  casts  of  visage,  to  his  words, 
Which,  as  I  lately  said,  your  eyes  reward 
With  interest  more  than  maidenly. 

Mabel.     Nay,  gentle  aunt, 
I  am  not  carved  from  stone,  and  cannot  hear 
Music  without  emotion,  nor  unmoved 
Look  on  a  flower,  or  aught  that's  beautiful ; 
And  must  I,  when  a  glowing  sentiment 
Or  noble  thought  finds  utterance,  emulate 
The  barren  rock  that  never  pays  the  sun 
With  produce  for  his  smiles  ?     O,  blame  me  not, 
If  at  discourse  on  themes  magnificent 
My  eyes  light  up  with  joy  !     They  testify 
Love  to  the  speaker's  thoughts,  not  to  himself. 

Lydia.     The  speaker  will  not  make  that  nice  distinction  ; 
And,  to  be  plain,  he  has  sufficient  cause 
To  augur  that. 

Mabel.     That  I  esteem,  admire  him  ; 
I  will  not  wrong  him  so  as  to  surmise 
He  would  aspire  to  more.     He  knows  my  rank  ; 
But  let  us  hasten,  'tis  so  very  late. 
I  trust  we're  friends  again.     You'll  follow  me. 

(Exit  Lady  Mabel,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Lydia.     Esteem  and  admiration  !  likely  terms 
To  cozen  me,  forsooth  !     No  ;  this  is  love, 
And  has  gone  further  than  I  thought.     This  Mordaunt 
Is  a  right  skilful  player  on  the  heart : 
That  praise  I'll  give  him.     He  must  read  success  — 
Success  in  the  girl's  face,  which,  like  a  mirror,  shows 
The  image  of  his  thoughts.     Should  this  proceed, 
No  motives,  counsel,  prayer,  threat,  influence, 
Will  stand  between  her  and  her  love.     Well,  then, 
I  and  this  schemer  are  at  war  !     I'll  watch 
His  demonstrations  one  more  week  ;  if  then 
He  purpose  longer  stay,  I'll  in  plain  terms 
Urge  his  departure ;  if  he  still  remain, 
I'll  move  him  to  disclosure  of  his  end 
Before  it  ripen  further,  and  thus  shake, 
In  spring,  the  blossoms  autumn  had  seen  fruit. 

(Exit  Lady  Lydia,  c  d.  l.  h.) 
2  * 


18  THE    PATRICIAN'3    DAUGHTER. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  —  A  Terrace  in  front  of  Lynterne  Castle.     Evening;  half 
dark. 

Enter  Mordaunt,  r.  h. 

Mor.     How  beautiful  are  all  things  when  we  love  ! 
She  I  love  is  human ;  and  through  Nature's  wide  extent 
All  that  is  human,  for  her  sake,  I  love. 
Our  planet  earth  is  her  abode  ;  for  her  sake  I  love  earth, 
And  for  earth's  sake  love  all  that  earth  contains. 
O,  it  is  great,  and  wise,  and  good  to  love  ! 
What  joy  it  is  to  love !     And  loves  she  me  ? 
She  listens  to  my  words,  and  seldom  speaks. 
First  it  was  otherwise ;  her  repartee, 
Quick  wit,  and  lively  sallies  flashed  all  day ; 
Her  answers  now  are  few  and  brief,  as  though 
The  task  of  ordering  her  thoughts  for  speech 
Woke  her  from  blissful  dreams  ;  my  soul  itself 
Seemed  suffused  in  her  presence,  bathed  in  light, 
As  plants  beneath  the  solemn,  tender  moon, 
Which  gilds  their  life  with  beauty,  as  she  mine, 
And  joys  in  heaven  to  see  their  silvered  leaves, 
Unknowing  'tis  her  smile  that  make  their  brightness, 
Which  fades  from  earth  whene'er  she  wanes  in  heaven. 

Enter  Lady  Lydia,  l.  h.  1  e. 

A  cloud  comes  over  mine.     Lo !  Lady  Lydia  ! 
I  trust  you  find  the  evening  breeze  refresh  you. 

Lydia.     A  debtor  to  your  wishes,  sir  !     I  thank  you. 

(Crosses,  R.  H.) 
(Aside.)     I'll  not  delay,  for  opportunity. 
Once  slighted,  oft  escapes.     When  do  you  leave  us? 

Mor.     (l.  h.)     Shortly.     Perhaps  within  a  week  or  two, 
Provided  for  that  time  my  sojourn  prove 
No  inconvenience  here. 

Lydia.     (R.  h.)     I  fear  it  will. 

Mor.     Had  I  thought  so,  you  had  not  seen  me  now. 

Lydia.     I  will  be  plain,  sir. 
Plainness  is  always  the  best  courtesy, 
Where  truths  are  to  be  told.     You  still  are  young, 
And  want  not  personal  grace ;  your  air,  your  words 
Are  such  as  captivate.     You  understand  me. 

Mor.     I  do  not ;  for  these  things  most  men  seek  to  harbor  guests. 

Lydia.     True,  except  sometimes 
When  they  are  fathers.     You  are  honorable, 
And  what  has  passed  will  leave  us  straight. 

Mor.     I  scarcely  dare  presume  to  give  your  words 
Their  nearest  meaning. 


THE    PATRICIA.N'8    DAUGHTER.  19 

Lydia.     Yet  you  may  do  so. 

Mor.     The  Lady  Mabel ! 

Lydia.     Yes. 

Mor.     Looks  not  on  me  indifferently. 

Lydia.     That  you  will  join  me  in  regretting,  sir. 

Mor.     And  have  you  certain  warrant  for  your  thought  f 

Lydia.     She  has  confessed  it. 

Mor.     In  your  hearing  ? 

Lydia.     You  are  minute,  I  see,  and  well  may  doubt, 
Except  on  surer  witness  than  surmise, 
So  strange  a  tale.     Alas !  the  evidence 
Courts  sight  and  touch.     I  hold  it  in  my  hand  — 
This  letter  !     (Mordaunt  regards  her  inquiringly .)     Nothing  —  (as  with 

a  sudden  impulse.)  I  dare  trust  your  honor. 
This  letter,  then,  —  sweet  patience  !  —  by  my  niece 
Addressed  to  me,  doth  full  disclosure  bear 
Of  her  hid  passion. 

Mor.     Writ  to  you  ? 

Lydia.     You  doubt.     (Shoioing  the  address.) 
Her  lips  refused  allegiance  to  her  will, 
Which  made  her  hand  its  deputy.     Behold  !     (Extending  the  letter.) 

Mor.     Her  love  for  me  !     The  glory  on  the  page 
Dazzles  mine  eyes. 

Lydia.     (  Withdrawing  it.)     Forgive  me  :  'tis  too  much. 

(Tears  it.) 
Thus  let  the  winds  disperse  the  signs  of  shame. 

(Throws  it  off,  k.  h.) 
'Twould  be  most  happy,  were  its  memory 
As  easily  effaced. 

Mor.     Your  hand  hath  rent 
The  record;  but  your  voice  transfers  its  purport 
To  the  more  lasting  tablet  of  my  heart  ! 
I'll  seek  her  on  the  instant.     (Going,  L.  h.) 

Lydia.     (Aside.)     That,  indeed, 
Would  mar  my  plan.     No ;  silence  is  your  course  : 
It  is  most  delicate,  least  painful,  too. 
No  word  were  well,  save  farewell,  and  that  said 
As  those  who  have  no  long  acquaintance  say  it. 

Mor.     I  will  not  say  it  so  to  the  Lady  Mabel,  now, 
Or  ever,  unless  it  be  her  will. 

Lydia.     You  would  not  surely  take 
Advantage  of  her  weakness.     Do  not,  sir, 
Let  it  be  thought  that  we,  in  welcoming  you, 
Shook  hands  with  an  adventurer. 

Mor.     (Indignantly.)     Madam  !    (with   constrained  courtesy.)    you 
are  her  relative,   and  I  am  dumb.     (Going  to  L.  h.) 

Lydia.     Stay.     Think  you  the  earl's  voice  will  not  crush  your 
plan 
The  moment  that  sxirprise  permitted  speech  ? 

Mor.     Why  should  it  ? 

Lydia.     Must  I  speak  outright  ? 


20  the  pateician's  datjghteb. 

Mor.     Surely. 

Lydia.     The  house  of  Lynteme 
Dates  from  the  time  that  he  of  Normandy 
O'erthrew  the  Saxon  sway ;  since  then,  its  lords, 
In  war  or  peace,  have  held  the  foremost  rank 
In  conflict  or  in  council.     Sir,  our  house 
Is  noble  —  must  remain  so  till  its  end. 

Mor.     Is  not  yon  sunset  splendid  r 

Lydia.     Yes. 
But  we  may  see  that  often,  and  it  bears 
Not  now  on  our  discourse. 

Mor.     Indeed  it  does. 
However  proud,  or  great,  or  wise,  or  valiant 
The  Lady  Mabel's  ancestors,  that  sun, 
From  age  to  age,  has  watched  their  honors  end, 
As  man  by  man  fell  off ;   and  centuries  hence 
Yon  light  unto  oblivion  may  have  lit 
As  many  stately  trains  as  now  have  passed. 
And  yet  my  soul,  orb  of  eternity, 
"When  yonder  globe  is  ashes,  as  your  sires, 
Shall  shine  on  undecaying.     When  men  know 
"What  their  own  natures  are,  and  feel  what  God 
Intended  them  to  be,  they  are  not  awed 
By  pomps  the  sun  outlives. 

Lydia.     Think  of  me,  as  your  friend,  when  you  are  gon«, 
You  have  a  towering  spirit.     Had  the  rank 
And  blood  of  Lady  Mabel  been  as  yours, 
I  had  not  said  a  word  to  spite  your  wish. 

Mor.     You  see  this  ring  ? 

Lydia.     1  have  admired  it  oft.     "Would  you  thus  hint 
That  you  are  rich  ? 

Mor.     Is  not  the  setting  precious  ? 

Lydia.     The  diamond  is  magnificent ! 

Mor.     True,  madam  !     But  the  setting  — 

Lydia.     The  diamond  is  the  treasure. 

Mor.     No  !  the  setting  ! 

Lydia.     The  setting  is  but  silver,  worthless,  base, 
Contrasted  with  the  stone. 

Mor.     True,  Lady  Lydia  ! 
Then  when  I  treat  for  merchandise  would  buy 
All  stars  of  heaven  up,  were  they  diamond  worlds,  — 
A  peerless  woman's  love,  —  why  runs  your  phrase, 
"  You  might  have  had  that  unmatched  gem  for  nought 
Had  it  not  been  so  set  "  in  ancestry, 
Or  some  such  silver  rim  ?     But  enough — 
Enough  —  now  to  Lady  Mabel.     (Going,  l.) 

Lydia.     Let  me  advise. 
If  you  persist  in  this  strange  scheme,  seek,  first, 
An  audience  of  the  earl  ;  if  he  consent, 
The  which  is  most  unlikely,  Mabel's  love 
Is  honorably  yours  ;  if  he  refuse, 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  21 

You  incur  no  disgrace,  as  you  would  do 
Luring  his  daughter's  heart  unknown  to  him. 

Mor.     I  take  your  counsel.     The  earl  is  in  the  library  even  now. 
I'll  learn  his  thoughts  at  once. 

Lydia.     I  pity  you.     It  will  be  a  hard  task  for  your  high  spirit 
To  sue  the  earl  in  such  a  humble  strain  as  will  be  requisite. 

Mor.     Humble  !     I  —  Mordaunt ! 

Lydia.     Your  ground  is  delicate ;  you  must  be  cautious  ; 
Confess  your  low  estate,  and  own  the  prize 
Y ou  seek  to  gain  far  beyond  your  desert ; 
You  must  put  by  your  recent  haughty  tone 
And  kingly  glances ;  plead  with  downcast  eye 
And  hesitating  voice  ;  all  this,  I  say,  must  keenly 
Gall  your  nature  ;  therefore  I  pity  you. 

Mor.     I  were  indeed  a  slave, 
And  needing  pity,  could  I  so  forget 
My  manhood  ;  but  enough,  methinks,  is  said 
To  one  who  knows  me  not.     (Exit,  1  e.  L.  h.) 

Lydia.     0,  this  is  well ! 
He'll  to  my  brother  in  a  haughty  mood  — 
The  very  one  I  wished  for.     'Twill  arouse 
All  the  earl's  latent  pride.     And  now  for  Mabel. 
Upon  the  wish  she  comes.     (Retires  up  stage.)  \ 

Enter  Laoy  Mabel,  r.  h.  1  e.,  with  bonnet,  scarf,  and  parasol;  coma 
on  with  eyes  bent  on  ground,  slowly,  in  thought. 

Mabel.     "Why  have  not  noble  natures  noble  names  ? 
Or  why  are  names  of  import  ?     O  world  !  world  ! 
With  many  a  captious  custom  dost  thou  bind 
The  heart  that  seeks  enlargement !     What  is  birth ! 
Even  my  father 

Seeks  his  alliance.     "What  is  this  to  me  ? 
A  line  invisible  divides  our  fates  ! 
O,  would  that  he  had  rank  !     The  day  may  come 
When  he  will  earn  nobility,  and  men 
Of  prouder  birth  may  court  his  smile  ;  and  then, 
Perchance,  (for  love  is  strong,)  I  might  descend 
A  few  steps  from  my  pinnacle.     Fool !  fool ! 
This  is  a  dream  of  summer  and  of  youth. 
I  know  not  my  own  soul ;  'tis  ardent  now, 
But  years  may  chill  it  into  apathy. 
Why  not  ?     "lis  thus  with  others  ;  I  could  weep. 

Lydia.     So,  you've  been  secret,  Mabel ! 
'Twas  hardly  kind ;  but  I  waive  all  displeasure  ; 
I  trust  you  may  be  happy. 

Mabel.     This  is  strange  language,  aunt. 

Lydia.     I  might  reply,  yours  is  strange  conduct,  niece. 
But  let  that  pass.     The  earl  was  silent  too,  but  I 
Surmise  he  understood  it  all ;  perhaps  had 
Planned  it  before  his  guest  arrived. 


22  the  patrician's  daughter. 

Mabel.     Tax  not  my  patience  thus,  but  in  one  word 
Explain  your  meaning. 

Lydia.     Why  counterfeit  surprise  ?     Know  you  not  well 
Mordaunt  is  with  the  earl  this  very  hour  ? 

Mabel.     Well,  what  is  that  to  me  ? 

Lydia.     Much,  I  should  say, 
Were  I  now  young,  in  love,  and  knew  what  boon 
The  man  I  loved  was  seeking  from  my  sire. 

Mabel.     You  jest. 

Lydia.     I  am  in  earnest.     He  had  your  consent, 
Doubtless,  to  back  his  prayer. 

Mabel.     No ;  never. 

Lydia.     Not  in  strict,  formal  terms,  perhaps,  but  still 
By  such  expressions  as  the  timid  use 
To  help  the  lip's  checked  utterance  by  the  eye. 

Mabel.     I  never  spoke  the  word  Presumption's  self 
Could  torture  to  a  pledge  of  love  for  him. 

Lydia.     I  am  amazed  !  it  is  not  half  an  hour 
Since  his  own  lips  assured  me  that  the  earl 
Must  needs  confirm  his  choice. 

Mabel.     Presuming  arrogance  !     (Crosses  to  L.  H.) 

Lydia.     He  spoke  in  easy  strain, 
His  air,  half  buoyancy,  half  carelessness, 
As  though  success  were  slave  to  him,  and  came 
Without  the  pains  of  calling. 

Mabel.     What  sanction  have  I  given  him  thus  to  boast  ? 

Lydia.     I  warned  you  once  to  guard,  lest  what  you  meant 
For  courtesy  he  should  interpret  love. 

Mabel.     In  word  or  look  I  never  passed  the  bound  of  courtesy. 

Lydia.     Did  you  not  tell  me,  Mabel,  that  the  earl 
Requested  special  kindness  for  this  man  ? 

Mabel.     What  man  ?     (With  sudden  indignation.) 

Lydia.     This  gentleman,  this  Mordaunt,  at  whose  hands 
The  earl  looked  for  some  service.     Am  I  right  ? 

Mabel.     Yes !  so  he  said. 

Lydia.     Nothing  is  more  plain  than 
That  your  father  seeks  some  grace  of  Mordaunt 
Which  he  intends  to  sell  —  the  price,  your  hand. 
How  now  !  you  shiver  ! 

Mabel.     The   earl  shall    spurn  him.     (Crosses,    R.   H.)     Buy  my 
hand,  said  you  ? 

Lydia.     You  may  depend  he  means  it.     (Crosses  L.  H.) 

Mabel.     Why  is  your  tone  so  measured,  and  your  brow 
So  clear  on  this  occasion  ?     Where's  the  fire 
That  should  be  in  your  eyes  ?     Your  temper's  sweet ; 
But  now  I  like  it  not,  I  like  it  not.      (  Weeps.) 

Lydia.     I  cannot  chide,  if  under  quick  excitement  at  your 
Wrong,  you  are  unjust  to  me.     A  step  !    (Enter  Servant,  r.  h.  1  e.) 
What  now  ? 

Ser.     Madam,  my  lord  would  see  you  and  the  Lady 
Mabel ;  he  waits  you  in  the  library.     (Exit,  1  e.  r.) 


the  patrician's  daughter.  23 

Lydia.     Come,  Mabel ;  take  heart,  sweet. 
Mabel.     {Crossing,  R.)     What  is  there  that  I  should  fear  ? 
Let  us  be  going,  aunt.     {Exeunt,  1  E.  R.  H.) 


Scene  II.  —  Library,  as  before.       The  Earl   and    Morkaunt   dis- 
covered. 

Mor.     Is  love  a  crime  ? 
Can  we  prevent  its  coming  ?  or  when  come, 
Can  we  command  it  from  us  ? 

Earl.     We  may,  at  least,  curb  its  expression, 
When  disgrace  and  grief  are  like  to  follow  it. 

Mor.     Disgrace  !     Your  daughter's  noble,  fair,  and  good ; 
I  shall  not  feel  disgraced  in  taking  her. 

Earl.     Sir !     You  are  insolent.     {Takes  chair.) 

{Enter  Lady  Mabel  and  Lady  Lydia,  c.  d.  l.  h.; 

Mabel,  my  child,  have  I  not  loved  you  truly, 
Shown  all  kindness  that  is  a  daughter's  due  ? 

Mabel.     Indeed,  my  lord,  you  have.     (l.  h.  o/"Eabl.) 

Earl.     Have  you  done  well 
In  making  stranger  to  a  father's  heart 
The  dearest  wish  of  yours?  —  in  plighting  faith 
For  life,  unknown  to  him  who  gave  you  life  ?  [der.) 

Mabel.     This  have  I  never  done.     {Leaning  on  her  father's  shoul- 

Mor.     Speak  frankly ;  have  you  not,  Lady  Mabel,  given  me  proof 
Of  favor  in  your  sight  will  justify 
The  boon  I  have  entreated  of  the  earl  — 
Permission  to  be  ranked  as  one  who  looks 
For  closer  union  with  you  than  a  friend  ?     Answer,  Mabel. 

Mabel.     Mabel !  the  Lady  Mabel,  when  you  speak. 

Lydia.     (l.  h.)     She  utterly  denies  what  you  infer. 

Mabel.     Yes,  utterly. 

Mor.     And  Lady  Lydia  speaks  thus ;  she  whose  words 
Confirmed  all  I  once  hoped  ? 

Lydia.     We  think  you  but  presumptuous ;  let  your  honor 
Guard  you  from  veiling  shame  by  sin ;  nor  strive 
From  loose  discourse,  spoken  in  pleasantry, 
To  justify  your  conduct. 

Mor.     And  the  letter  ? 

Lydia.     The  letter  !     He's  distraught. 

Mabel.     {Aside  to  Lydia.)     The  letter  !     Aunt ! 

Lydia.     Yes,  love.     {Going  to  Mabel.) 

Mabel.     No,  no  ;  I  will  not  wrong  her ;  it  is  plain 
His  folly  has  deceived  him. 

Mor.     May  I  then  ask,   (Lydia  gets  round  to  R.  H.) 
If  you  have  never  loved  me,  why  you  deigned 
To  speak  in  tones  so  soft,  to  let  each  glance 
Be  tempered  with  such  sweetness ;  oftentimes 
To  sit  mute  by  the  hour,  as  if  my  words 


24  the  patrician's  daughter. 

"Were  music  to  your  ear,  and  when  I  ceased, 
To  pay  me  with  a  smile,  in  which  there  seemed 
A  heart's  whole  volume  writ  ? 

Mabel.     This  is  too  much.     (Sits  in  chair,  centre.) 
Whate'er  my  kindness  meant,  it  did  not  mean 
To  foster  your  presumption,  though,  perhaps, 
Suspecting  it,  and  lacking  at  the  time 
Better  employment,  I  allowed  it  scope, 
Did  not  repress  it  harshly,  and  amused, 
Rather  than  angered,  failed  to  put  a  bound 
To  its  extravagance. 

Mor.     All,  then,  has  been  a  jest ;  the  thing  resolves 
Itself  into  a  harmless  badinage  ! 
You  had  no  other  toy,  so  took  my  heart 
To  wile  away  an  hour.     The  plaything  broke; 
But  then  it  was  amusement ! 

Lydia.     Well,  you  were  honored 
In  thus  assisting  to  beguile  the  hours 
Of  Lady  Mabel's  solitude. 

Mor.     Honored,  say  you  ? 
Men's  hearts  have  leaped  within  them  at  my  words. 
The  lowly  have  adored  me,  and  the  proud  — 
Ay,  sir,  the  proud  —  have  courted  me ;  you  know  it. 

Lydia.     All  this  would  sound  much  to  your  credit,  sir, 
Were  other  lips  to  speak  it. 

Mor.     Understand  me. 
You  deem  me  proud.     I  am  so ;  and  yet  humble : 
To  you  I  would  have  been  a  slave  ;  have  moulded 
Each  wish  to  your  desire  ;  have  laid  my  fame, 
Though  earth  had  ratified  it,  at  your  feet, 
Nor  deemed  the  offering  worthy  of  your  smile  ! 
But  when,  admitting  what  I  am,  you  scorn  me 
For  what  my  father  was,  sport  with  me,  trample 
On  the  same  hopes  you  fostered,  then  I  claim. 
The  patent  which  the  Great  Paternity 
Of  heaven  assigns  me  as  its  elder  born, 
And  walk  before  you  in  the  march  of  time  ! 

Lydia.     The  stale,  fond  trick  —  to  boast  of  honors  stored 
In  ether,  where  no  human  eye  can  pierce. 
You  may  be  prince  of  several  stars  —  possess 
An  empire  in  the  ocean.     But  the  meanest  knighthood 
Conferred  by  a  real  sword  on  real  shoulders, 
Beats  fifty  thousand  dukedoms  in  the  air. 
The  old,  convenient  trick  ! 

Earl.     Nay,  courtesy ! 

Lydia.     To  check  the  signs  of  loathing,  it  were  best 
The  eye  should  shun  the  object.     May  we  go  ? 

Earl.     Yes,  leave  me.    (Mabel  rises,  and  they  are  going  up  centre, 

Mor.     Stay  !     Before  we  part,  I  have  a  word  or  two 
For  Lady  Mabel's  ear.     (Mabel  returns  to  centre.)    I  know  right 
well 


THE  patrician's  dauqhteb.  25 

The  world  has  no  tribunal  to  avenge 

An  injury  like  mine  ;  you  may  allure 

The  human  heart  to  love,  warm  it  with  smiles, 

To  aspirations  of  a  dream-like  bliss, 

From  which  to  wake  is  madness  ; 

And  that  very  heart,  brought  to  this  pass, 

You  may  spurn  from  your  path,  pass  on  in  jest, 

And  the  crowd  will  jest  with  you ;  you  may  glide, 

With  eye  as  radiant,  and  with  brow  as  smooth, 

And  feet  as  light,  through  your  charmed  worshippers, 

As  though  the  angel's  pen  had  failed  to  trace 

The  record  of  your  crime ;  and  every  night, 

Lulled  by  soft  flatteries,  you  may  calmly  sleep 

As  do  the  innocent ;  but  it  is  crime, 

Deep  crime,  that  you  commit.     Had  you,  for  sport, 

Trampled  upon  the  earth  a  favorite  rose, 

Pride  of  the  garden,  or  in  wantonness 

Cast  in  the  sea  a  jewel  not  your  own, 

All  men  had  held  you  guilty  of  offence. 

Lydia.    Is't  meet  that  longer  you  should  brook  this  censure  ? 

Mor.     And  is  it  then  not  sin 
To  crush  those  flowers  of  life,  our  freshest  hopes, 
With  all  the  incipient  beauty  in  the  bud, 
Which  knows  no  second  growth  ?  to  cast  our  faith 
In  human  kind,  the  only  amulet 
By  which  the  soul  walks  fearless  through  the  world, 
Into  those  floods  of  memoried  bitterness, 
Whose  awful  depths  no  diver  dares  explore  ? 
To  paralyze  the  expectant  mind,  while  yet 
On  the  world's  threshold,  and  existence'  self 
To  drain  of  all  save  its  inert  endurance  ? 
To  do  this  unprovoked,  I  ask  it  of  you, 
Is  it  not  sin  ?    To  the  unsleeping  eye  of  Him 
Who  sees  all  aims,  and  knows  the  wrongs 
No  laws,  save  his,  redress,  I  make  appeal 
To  judge  between  us.     There's  an  hour  will  come, 
Not  of  revenge,  but  of  righteous  retribution. 

Earl.     Well,  sir,  our  conference  is  ended. 

Mor.     Yes ;  but  its  issues  have  yet  to  be  revealed. 

{Exit,  c.  d.  I>.  H  ) 

Mabel.    He  is  deceived  !     He  hears  me  not !     He  knows  me  not ! 
He's  gone ! 

Earl.     Why,  what  is  this,  dear  Mabel  ? 

Mabel.     (  With  a  forced  smile.)     Nothing,  sir. 
I  am  not  used,  you  know,  to  witness  strife. 
It  somewhat  chafes  my  spirit. 

Earl.     Hither,  love  !     {Mabel  reels  forward,  and  falls  into  her  fa- 
ther's arms.) 
3 


THE  PATRICIAN'S   DAUGHTER. 


ACT    IV. 


Scene  I.  —  Same  as  Scene  I.  Act  3  —  An  interval  of  Jive  years  is  sup' 
posed  to  have  elapsed  between  the  third  and  fourth  acts. 

Enter  Lister  and  Heartwell,  l.  h. 

Lister.     (R.  h.)     The  marriage  rites  take  place  to-morrow  morn ! 

Heart,     (l.  h.)     So  the  earl  purposes.     His  preparations 
Are  of  such  magnitude  as  to  compete 
Almost  -with  royal  nuptials.     It  will  be 
A  gorgeous  festival. 

Lister.     I  did  not  think  to  see  it. 

Heart.     For  myself,  I  never  looked  within  these  ancient  walls 
For  welcome  as  guest,  far  less  as  one 
Summoned  to  Mordaunt's  marriage. 

Lister.     It  is  strange,  after  the  rumors  bruited  of  his  suit, 
And  its  vain  issue,  scarce  five  years  ago, 
He  should  now  have  renewed  it  with  success. 
Besides  this,  I  had  deemed  his  pride  too  great 
To  brook  his  chance  of  scorn  a  second  time. 
I  well  remember  the  affair  was  made 
A  theme  of  public  jest. 

Heart.     Yes.     He  became 
The  gibe  of  every  lisping  fool,  whose  wit 
Had  taught  his  lips  to  sneer,  though  scarce  to  speak. 
Poor  Mordaunt  !     They  who  envied  his  ascent 
Gloried  in  his  disgrace,  and  prudent  mothers 
Quoted  his  story  to  their  heedless  daughters  — 
The  moral  of  a  fable  meant  to  teach 
The  vulgar  crime  of  loving  plain,  bare  merit : 
Scarce  any  one  dared  know  him. 

Lister.     For  all  this  he  was  indebted  much  to  Lady  Lyaia ; 
And,  as  you  say,  I  took  him  for  a  man 
Too  proud  to  bear  with  insult.     It  amazed  me 
To  see  him  subject  thus  to  general  scoff, 
Calmly  outbrave  it,  give  his  mind  entire 
To  public  duties,  daily  gathering  friends, 
Until  his  strength  grew  such,  the  earl  preferred 
Concession  rather  than  hostility, 
Admitted  all  our  claims,  procured  him  rank, 
Now  takes  him  for  his  son.     He  showed  no  sign 
Of  pain  at  this  contempt  ? 

Heart.     Save  once,  I  think  ; 
And  then  I  tented  him.     "  Good  friend,"  said  he, 
"  That  Edgar  Mordaunt  suffers  wrong  is  little. 
He  is  not  the  first  injured  man  by  thousands ; 
But  when  I  think  that  all  who  rise,  like  me, 
From  lowly  state,  should  be  like  me  contemned, 
Whate'er  their  virtues  be,  I  feel  it  there  — 


THE   PATRICIAN'S   DAUGHTER.  27 

I  feel  it  there."     lie  grasped  iny  hand  ;  his  shook  ; 
But  this  was  for  a  moment.     "  Never,  sir, 
Renew  this  theme."     He  thus  entreated  me. 
An  instant  served  to  banish  every  trace 
Of  past  emotion.     The  clear,  resolute  brow, 
The  calm,  yet  searching  eye,  the  lip  just  curved, 
His  usual  look  —  you  know  it  well  —  returned. 
I  probed  the  wound  no  more. 

Enter  Lady  Lydia  and  Captain  Pierpont,  r.  h. 

Let  us  pass  on.     The  Lady  Lydia  and  her  nephew  come. 
Blithe  weather  for  the  festival,  good  madam. 

Lydia.     (r.  h.)     Fair  as  our  brightest  hopes  are,  gentlemen. 

{Exeunt  Heartwell  and  Lister,  r.  h.  1  e.) 
You  know  already  these  are  the  members  of  a  factious  clique. 
Mordaunt  has  brought  to  notice  of  the  earl. 

Pier.     ^l.  h.)     You   bear   this  Mordaunt  no  better  will,  then, 
than  I. 

Lydia.     I  hate  him,  nephew.     I  foiled  him  once. 
I  owe  him 

The  hatred  of  the  vanquished,  besides  that 
"Which  springs  from  shame,  in  calling  relative 
A  man  without  an  ancestor. 

Pier.     I  am  poor,  yet  had  I  rather  starved  on  soldier's  pay 
Than  thus  disgraced  my  house,  how  great  soe'er 
The  bribe  might  have  been  tendered  ;  but,  good  aunt, 
I  should  have  held  your  wit  too  quick  to  lose 
The  conflict  with  this  churl. 

Lydia.     I  did  all  I  could  —  strove  to  insinuate  that  Mabel's  hand 
Rather  obeyed  her  father's  Avill  than  hers. 
Since  I  am  conquered,  nothing  now  remains 
Except  to  make  the  best  on't. 
We'll  hasten  to  the  castle  :  'tis  the  hour 
My  brother  named  to  read  the  marriage  deed.     {About  to  go  R.  h) 

Enter  Mabel,  l.  h.  1  e. 

Your  pardon.     I  will  follow  you  anon.     (She  advances  to  meet  Ma- 
bel.) (Exit  Pierpont,  r.  h.) 
Nay,  be  of  better  cheer.     Should  one  betrothed 
Upon  her  bridal  eve  look  downcast  thus  ? 
There  dwells  a  settled  sadness  on  your  brow 
I  marked  not  ere  this  wooing.     O  my  child  ! 
Carry  it  gayly  ;  go  among  your  guests  ; 
Be  liberal  of  your  smiles,  free  of  your  mirth, 
As  one  should  be  upon  the  verge  of  bliss. 

Mabel.     Believe  me,  I  have  striven  to  do  my  best, 
Nor  quite  in  vain  ;  nay,  heard  you  not  yourself 
Our  sprightly  jests,  as  I  led  forth  the  train 
Through  the  wood's  maze  ?     O,  we  were  gay  ! 

Lydia.     I  was  not  unobservant  of  your  mirth  ; 
It  did  not  please  me,  Mabel ;  it  was  strained, 


28  the  patrician's  daugsteb. 

Abrupt  —  wanted  tranquillity  ;  your  tones 
Were  quicker  than  belonged  to  quiet  joy  ; 
Your  smiles  not  such  as  peace  serenely  wears, 
But  vanishing  on  sudden,  as  if  hid 
By  the  dark  shadow  of  some  inward  cloud, 
That  would  not  be  commanded  to  depart. 

Mabel.     You  are  right ;  and  I,  it  seems,  am  not  so  skilled 
As  I  had  thought  in  artifice.     Yes,  aunt ! 
There  is  a  care  lies  heavy  at  my  heart. 

Lydia.     I  knew  there  was  :  confide  your  grief  to  me. 

Mabel.     I  fear  that  time  has  changed  him. 

Lydia.     Changed  Sir  Edgar  ! 

Mabel.     Ay :  'tis  even  so. 

Lydia.     Despite  of  which  your  love  still  perseveres? 

Mabel.     True  love,  though  tender,  is  immortal  too  — 
Easy  to  wound,  incapable  of  death. 
Not  that  he  has  at  any  time  been  harsh, 
At  least  in  words ;  but  that  to  me  seems  stern 
Which  others  might  not  deem  so.     Public  cares 
Leave  him  few  hours  for  converse,  and  in  those 
He  speaks  me  formally.     I  know  I'm  blameful 
To  tell  you  this ;  but  then  I  have  no  mother, 
Whose  voice  might  solace  weakness  or  reprove  it. 

Lydia.     Alas  !     Sweet  niece,  you  merit  better  fate. 

Mabel.     Why  say  so,  aunt  ?     I  have  in  nought  accused  him, 
Except  in  change ;   such  change  as  comes  like  growth, 
Sure,  but  unnoted. 

Lydia.     I  trust  you  kept  my  counsel,  dearest  child  — 
Avoided  all  recurrence  to  the  past. 

Mabel.     We  have  not  spoken  of  it.     Much  I  fear 
It  steals  upon  his  memory,  and  clouds 
The  sunshine  of  his  love. 

Lydia.     I  would  fain  hope 
The  best,  dear  Mabel.     You  did  well  at  least 
In  keeping  silence ;  but  we  shall  be  late. 
You  know  your  father's  wishes  are  to  grace 
Your  nuptials  with  all  ceremony,  whence 
This  public  reading  of  the  marriage  treaty. 
Would  I  could  bribe  those  lips  to  smile.     Come,  love. 

(Exemit  Lady  Mabel  and  Lydia,  r.  1  e.) 

Enter  Mordaunt,  l.  1  e.,  looking  after  them. 

Mor.     'Tis  she.     What  sad  reluctance  in  her  step  ! 
The  conscious  victim  in  each  gesture  speaks. 
True,  true,  confirmed  by  many  a  certain  sign, 
The  Lady  Lydia' s  tale.     She  loves  me  not, 
And  curbs  her  loathing  at  her  sire's  behest ! 
She  turns  within.     What  witchery  of  grace, 
Less  seen  than  felt !     We  know  not  where  it  dwells. 
Nor  how  it  works  ;  but  it  doth  work  to  madness  ! 


THE  pateician's  daughter.  29 

Bright  fascination,  wanting  only  heart 

To  make  thee  perfect.     Thou  that  in  the  thrall 

Of  fatal  beauty  didst  my  spirit  bind, 

Delilah-like,  to  prostrate  and  betray  ; 

Still,  still  there's  magic  to  me  in  thy  motions. 

Still  rind  thy  sighs  their  echoes  in  my  heart's 

Reverberating  ruins.     Still  thy  voice 

Wakes  a  wild  music  from  these  jarring  strings. 

Proud  scorner  !     I  could  love  thee  spite  of  scorn. 

Ill  fits  this  mood  the  time.     Hence,  yielding  self ! 

No  private  interests  now.     The  truth  !  the  right ! 

Yea.  though  each  syllable  were  coined  in  fire, 

And  my  own  heart  the  furnace,  I  would  speak 

My  message.     Haughty  lady,  heart,  take  heart ! 

Fate  yet  may  snatch  thee  from  the  base-born  Mordaunt. 

Enter  Sebvant,  b.  1  e. 

Ser.    My  lord,  sir,  seeks  your  presence. 
Mor.     Does  he  so  ?     I  will  attend  him  instantly. 
I  come.     {Exeunt  Moedaunt  and  Servant,  r.  1  e.) 

Scene  n.  —  Library,  as  before.  —  Earl  of  Lynterne,  MordaunT, 
Deaxcourt,  Pierpont,  Colville,  Lady  Lydia,  Mabel,  Notary, 
and  Wedding  Guests  discovered. 

Earl.     Good  friends  assembled  here  to  confer  honor 
Upon  the  near  espousals,  1  beseech 

Your  kind  attention  while  this  gentleman     (Notary  rises.)  , 

Reads  in  your  hearing  the  accustomed  deed 
Determining  the  rights  and  property 
Of  such  as  stand  affianced. 

Mor.     (e.  c,  rising.)     My  Lord  Lynterne, 
And  guests  who  grace  us  with  your  presence  here, 
I've  that  to  say,  which  'twere  unseasonable 
To  broach  at  any  later  stage  than  this.     (Notaey  sits.) 
Deem  you  not  me  much  honored,  who  have  sprung 
From  lineage  obscure,  in  this  alliance 
With  a  most  noble  lady,  who  can  trace 
An  ancestry  which  from  the  Conqueror's  time 
Hath  never  mingled  blood  with  pKurlf  bofore  ? 

Lydia.  (e.  h.)   What  frantic  scheme  has  this  man  now  to  compass  ? 
Nay,  dear  Sir  Edgar,  your  modesty  doth  underrate  your  birth, 

Mor.     Not  so.     My  father  was  a  man  of  toil ; 
I  mean  real  toil,  such  toil  as  makes  the  hand 
"Uncouth  to  sight,  coarse,  hard  to  the  touch ; 
There  are  none  here  who  would  have  clasped  that  hand 
Save  at  election  contests,  when  all  fingers 
Grow  marvellously  pliant. 

Lydia.     How  well  this  frankness  becomes  a  noble  mind  ! 
How  great  it  is  to  rise  by  our  desert  from  lowliness, 
And  blush  not  at  its  memory  ! 
3« 


30  THE   PATRICIAN'S   DAT7GHTEB. 

Omnes.    Most  noble. 

Lister,     (l.  c,  to  Hearttrell  aside.)     I  understand  not  this. 

Heart,     (l.  h.)     There's  a  deep  meaning  in  it. 

Mor.     You  -would  do  honor,  then,  good  friends,  to  him 
Who  by  his  own  endeavor  should  win  his  way 
To  eminence  and  power  ? 

Dean.     Such  men  adorn  their  country. 

Col.     Their  merit  doth  distance  praise ! 

Lydia.     They  are  earth's  master  spirits. 

Mor.     Then  had  you  known  one  such,  in  his  first  years 
Of  effort,  you  had  aided  him  ;  at  least 
Given  him  your  hand  —  showed  him  respect  ? 

Lydia.     Respect  most  due. 

Heart.     Decidedly  !     "Who  doubts  it  ? 

Mor.     You  had  been  just,  and  had  not  plotted  then 
Against  his  peace,  and  baited  with  such  smiles 
As  the  heart  loves  to  feed  on,  the  dire  poison 
Of  wanton,  causeless  scorn  ? 

Lydia.     Why  ask  them  this,  knowing  that  they  would  not  ? 

Mor.     But  did  such  live,  what  should  be  their  desert  ? 

Earl,     (c.)     You  trespass,  sir,  too  much  upon  the  time 
Of  this  high  company.     Methinks  'twere  well 
The  notary  should  proceed. 

Mor.     I  am  indifferent. 

Earl.     Mean  you  to  wed  my  daughter  ? 

Mor.     NO  !     (  Turning  upon  him  fiercely  ;  all  rise  in  surprise.") 

Pier.     Malignant  viper,  you  shall  dearly  pay 
The  debt  of  this  disgrace.     {Exit  Notaby,  c.  x>.  x.  h.) 

Mor.     Yet  hold  a  while ; 
If  you  accuse  me,  grant  me  the -same  Tights 
That  all  accused  enjoy.     Hear  my  defence ; 
That  over,  I  will  bide  whatever  shape 
Your  anger  wills  to  take. 

Earl.     Begone,  sir ;  leave  us  while  contempt  stills  wrath. 

Mabel.     I  do  beseech  you,  hear  him  ;  I  am  curious 
To  hear  what  sins  of  my  commission  urged 
To  deed  so  pitiful.     If  I  had  wronged 

Pier.     Even  then  it  was  most  pitiful  Tevenge. 

Lydia.     But  still  consistent  with  his  character. 

Omnes.     O,  yes,  yes ! 

Mor.     Why,  see  how  much  your  expectations  mock  your  acts  ! 
You  sow  the  heart  with  bitterness,  and  marvel 
That  it  bears  kindless  fruit.     The  slave's  treatment 
Is  what  you  give  man,  and  the  angel's  meekness 
Is  what  you  demand  from  him.     'Tis  five  years 
Since  this  same  Lady  Mabel  lured  my  soul 
With  such  soft  praises,  and  such  winning  looks 
As  only  leave  the  words  "  I  love"  unsaid. 
Twas  not  my  vanity  that  thus  construed 
These  signs  of  tenderness.     The  Lady  Lydia 
Noted  their  import ;  nay,  with  earnestness, 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  31 

Not  willing  then  our  union,  besought  me 

To  quit  the  castle, 

Avowed  that  Lady  Mabel  had  confessed  her  love. 

Encouraged  thus,  I  straightway  sought  the  earl, 

Entreated  his  permission  to  be  ranked 

As  Lady  Mabel's  suitor,  when  it  pleased  her 

Smilingly  to  admit  that  she  had  toyed 

With  me  to  wile  away  an  idle  hour. 

I  hasted  home  ;  in  a  few  days  the  tale 

Of  my  crushed  love  was  blazoned  to  the  world, 

Blown,  published,  chorused, 

In  the  quick  ear  of  scoffers  !     This  low  churl, 

This  foiled  plebeian  aspirant,  supplied 

Mirth  to  a  thousand  jesters.     What  presumption 

In  him  to  love  thus  !     What  effrontery 

To  have  a  heart !     Now,  for  once  be  men 

And  women  ;  or,  if  you  can,  be  human. 

Have  you  loved  ever?  known  what  'tis  to  stake 

Your  heart's  whole  capital  of  blessedness 

Upon  one  die  —  the  chance  of  love  returned ; 

To  lose  the  cast ;  be  beggared  in  your  soul ; 

Then  to  be  spurned,  and  made  a  public  scorn 

By  those  who  tempted  to  the  fatal  throw 

Which  drained  your  heart  of  riches  ;  and  all  this 

Because  your  birth  was  lowly  ?     Had  you  borne  it  ? 

Earl.     Enough,  sir  !     You  have  had  your  vengeance.     Hence  ! 

Mor.     I  have  not  sought  for  vengeance  in  this  act. 
My  life,  my  energies,  my  talents,  all 
Did  I  task  for  the  deed  !     Such  apparatus 
Was  meant  for  nobler  uses  than  belong 
To  a  mere  private  feud ;  but  I  have  fought 
A  battle  for  high  principles,  and  taught 
Convention,  when  it  dares  to  tread  down  man, 
Man  shall  arise  in  turn  and  tread  it  down  ! 
As  for  this  lady  —  she  has  never  loved  me, 
Nor  have  I  lately  sought  to  win  her  love  ; 
Nor  shall  I  ever  seek  again  to  win  her  love. 
I  would  not  wreak  on  her  such  wretchedness 
As  she  caused  me  for  pastime.     I  have  done. 
My  mission  is  fulfilled.     {Going  up  c.  door.) 

Pier.     You  shall  not  quit  this  house  until  you  answer 
For  this  indignity.     {Draws  his  sword.) 

(Mabel  rushes  forward  and  arrests  his  arm  with  great  agitation.) 

Mabel.     Upon  your  life  injure  him  not ; 
Put  up  your  sword,  I  say.     (Mordaunt  regards  her  earnestly   in 
centre.) 

Mor.    He  is  not  worthy  of  it.     (Exit,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

TABLEAU.  —  Quick  drop. 


32  THE  patrician's  daughter. 


ACT  V. 

In  the  interval  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  the  season  changes  from 
summer  to  autumn. 

Scene   I.  —  Library  in  Lynterne  Castle,  as  before.     Physician  and 
Earl  discovered. 

Phy.    Have  you,  my  lord,  of  late  received  account 
Of  Lady  Lydia's  state  ? 

Earl.     No  recent  news ;  poor  sister  Lydia ! 
"When  first  suspicion  dawned  that  my  child's  grief 
Was  wearing  health  away,  her  aunt,  o'ercome 
By  daily  witness  of  such  touching  woe, 
Grew  pale  almost  to  wanness. 
From  Venice,  where  my  sister  purposes 
Some  few  months  to  stay,  I  anxiously  wait  letters. 
But  say  !  how  fares  it  with  my  blessed  one  ? 
Tell  me  the  worst.  —  Nay,  pause  a  moment.  —  Now 
I  think  I  am  man  enough  to  hear  you. 

Phy.     The  mind  is  our  chief  enemy ; 
And  failing  its  alliance,  all  endeavor 
Hastens  the  evil  it  would  fain  arrest. 

Earl.     O,  tax  your  whole  resources  ;  could  I  find 
The  healing  drug  would  save  her,  I  would  buy  it, 
Though  beggared  by  the  purchase. 

Phy.     Could  we  obliterate  the  past,  efface 
All  memory  of  this  wrong,  whose  double  edge 
Wounds  both  her  love  and  pride,  recall  to  life 
Her  hopes  and  her  affections 

Earl.     Cease,  sir,  to  torture  me  ;  'tis  mockery 
To  name  specifics  out  of  human  grasp. 

Enter  Servant  announcing  Lady  Lydia,  who  enters  in  travelling  cos- 
tume, c.  d.  l.  h.     Exit  Servant,  c.  d.  l. 

Earl.     (Advancing   to   meet  her.)      My  sister !     Dearest   Lydia ! 

thou  art  changed. 
Lydia.     Speak  not  of  me.     Mabel,  is  she  much  altered,  brother  ?  ; 
Earl.     Alas  !  much  altered,  as  yourself  may  see. 

Enter  Mabel,  c.  d.  l.  h.,  and  attendant.  They  draw  near  Mabel. 
Lydia  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  suddenly  raising  them 
as  she  faces  her  niece. 

Lydia.     (Trembling.)    Ha!   I  need  not  support ;  let  us  embrace. 
No,  no,  it  is  forbidden. 

Mabel.     Forbidden,  sweetest  kinswoman  ! 

Lydia.  (r.  h.)  By  conscience. 
Let  me  tell  you,  conscience  can  bow 
Wills  tyrants  cannot  move  —  extort  deep  groans 


THE    PATRICIAN'S   DAUGHTER  33 

(Physician  wheels  arm  chair  to  Mabel  in  centre.     Mabel  seated  ay\,d 

arranging  herself  in  chair.) 
From  men  mute  on  the  rack  —  and  from  the  lips 
Of  guilty  pride,  which  the  names'  agony 
Cannot  distort  or  open,  wring  the  tale 
Of  sin  and  degradation. 

Earl.     (l.  h.,  to  Physician.)     What  can  this  mean  ?     I  fear  her 
mind's  disturbed. 

Lydia.     ( Overhearing  him.)     True  !  but  not  in  your  sense ;  now, 
listen  to  me. 
I  am  my  niece's  murderer !     (Mabel  looks  up.) 

Earl.     Poor,  poor  unfortunate  !     {Compassionately.) 

Lydia.     I  did  not  drug  her  drink 
"With  poison,  nor  at  night  with  unsheathed  blade 
Startle  her  chamber's  darkness ;  but  by  arts 
Born  of  infernal  pride,  I  poisoned  hopes 
That  outlive  life  in  worth,  and  plunged  my  dart 
"Where  it  is  mercy  to  stab  mortally, 
Such  anguish  follows  where  the  wound  is  made. 

Mabel.     O,  mercy  !  mercy  ! 
Did  you  deceive  me  there  t 

Lydia.     When  he  who  shall  be  nameless  was  our  guest, 
I  prompted  him  at  once  to  ask  your  hand, 
Assured  him  of  your  love,  which  I  declared 
Yourself  had  owned  to  me.     With  sinful  wiles 
I  taught  you  to  believe  that  he  had  dared 
To  ask  you  of  your  father  as  the  hire 
For  future  service.     I  awoke  your  wrath, 
Moved  you  to  show  him  scorn. 

Mabel.     Alas  !  alas ! 

Lydia.     With  bitter  raillery  I. told  the  tale 
I  had  invented  where  I  knew  'twould  gain 
Admission  to  his  ear  :  the  effect  you  know. 

Mabel.     Wake  me  !     I  cannot  bear  this  dream.     O,  wake  me  I 
Will  none  of  you  have  pity  ? 

Lydia.     More   remains.     This  letter. will  tell  all.     {Gives   letter. 
Mabel  takes  the  letter  mechanically.) 
Mabel,  my  niece,  in  deep  remorse,  in  guilty  agony, 
I  pray  you  to  forgive  me.     {Kneeling  to  Mabel.) 

Mabel.     Hence  !   your  presence  {passionately.) 
Tortures  my  eyes,  as  have  your  deeds  my  heart ! 

Lydia.     Niece  !  child !  turn  not  away.     I  will  be  heard  ! 
I  loved  thee  ever.     When  I  wronged  thee  most, 
My  sin  was  born  of  love.     So  high  my  aims 
And  hopes  for  thee,  I  could  not  brook  thee  wed, 
Save  where  to  every  human  excellence 
Was  added  all  the  world  accounts  most  noble. 
And  now  these  tears,  this  soft  and  plenteous  dew, 
Speak  not  an  arid  soil  —  a  stony  heart. 
After  my  long  and  weary  pilgrimage, 
I  clasp  thy  feet,  a  humbled  penitent. 


84  THE  patrician's  daughter. 

Mabel.     I  —  I  —  O  God,  send  tears  ! 

Lydia.     {  With  solenmity.)     Ah,  Mabel,  think  — 
We  both  are  dying  women  — 
O,  think  that  you 

May  need  forgiveness  too  !     (Lydia  kneels  at  Mabel's  feet,  and  putt 
her  arms  round  her  neck.) 

Mabel.     You  are  forgiven.     {Falteringly.) 

Lydia.     Bless  thee  !     Death  will  be  gentler  now.     Farewell ! 

{Kisses  Mabel's  hand,  then  advances  to  Earl.) 
Brother !     {Kneels.) 

Earl.     Yes,  I  will  not  add  to  other  misery 
That  of  repulsing  penitence.     Now  go  : 
You  need  rest,  and  must  take  it.     {Exit  Lady  Lydia,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Earl.     The  tale  so  long  discredited  was  true. 
Mordaunt  is  wronged. 

Mabel.     {A  pause.)     I  ruined  and  disgraced  ! 

Earl.     It  shall  be  done.     Avaunt,  rebellious  pride  ! 
What  though  I  grovelled  at  a  peasant's  foot 
To  save  my  dear  one's  life.     Give  me  the  letter. 

{Takes  letter  from  Mabel.) 

Mabel.     What  mean  you  ;  for  your  air  is  strangely  wild, 
And  your  frame  trembles. 

Earl.     No,  no  ;  the  strife  is  passed.     O  God  !  that  we, 
Whom  thy  one  breath  can  prostrate  utterly, 
And  sweep  from  earth  our  love's  inheritance, 
Should  dare  to  foster  prided 

Mabel.     {Starting  to  her  feet.)     You  would  see  Mordaunt ! 

Earl.     Yes,  I  will  see  him  —  supplicate  his  ear 
For  this  most  sad  mischance.     My  prayers  and  tears 
Will  surely  reach  his  heart.     I'll  bend  my  knee, 
And  wear  a  look  so  meek,  so  lowly  ! 

Mabel.     Never  ! 

Earl.     O,  yes  ;  and  he  will  pardon  all  the  past. 

Mabel.     My  path- of  desolation  nears  the  grave; 
Yet  can  I  turn  my  face  to  him  once  more, 
And  look  on  him  forgivingly.     I  know 
That  he  has  been  deceived,  and  I  forgive  him. 
He  might  have  pardoned  we;  but  he  chose  vengeance, 
And  left  the  print  of  shame  on  my  crushed  heart ; 
Yet  wrung  not  from  its  depths  one  sigh  of  pain. 
My  misery  has  been  silent.     O,  dear  father, 
Torture  it  not  to  speech  ! 

Earl.     Be  calm,  my  child. 

Mabel.    Then  go  you  not.     Bow  not  your  reverend  head 
In  unavailing  shame,  nor  let  him  know 
What  cause  hath  sped  me  hence. 
It  shall  not  be.     Your  hand  —  a  sudden  weakness. 

(Mabel  sinks  into  a  chair.) 

Earl.     Alas  !  emotion  has  o'ertaxed  her  strength  ! 

Phy.     I  will  attend  her.     Meanwhile,  my  dear  lord, 
If  your  good  purpose  hold,  seek  Mordaunt  straight. 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  35 

Show  him  the  letter.     His  mind,  once  convinced, 
May  prompt  him  to  contrition,  and  such  signs 
Of  penitent  affection  as  shall  win 
Your  daughter's  heart  to  love  of  life  again. 

Earl.     And  yet  I  fear  I  go  on  a  vain  errand  ; 
For  should  he  yield,  to  o'er  come  her  resolve 
Will  be  a  task  yet  harder. 

Phy.     We  are  in  a  strait 
Of  peril  that  admits  no  other  hope. 
I  do  conjure  you  go,  and  please  you  bid 
Some  one  to  attend  to  share  -with  me  my  watch. 

Earl.     You  counsel  right,  my  friend.     I  go.     Farewell. 

Phy.  Almighty  aid  be  with  you.  {Exit  Earl,  c.  d.  l.  h.) 

Her  eyelids  open.     She  revives.     Dear  lady  ! 

Mabel.     Who  speaks  ?     Where  am  I  ? 

Phy.    'Tis  I,  your  faithful  Mend  who  watch  by  you. 

Enter  Maid  Servant,  c.  d.  l.  h. 

Mabel.    Thanks,  sir.     Where  is  my  father  ?     Call  him  hither ! 

Phy.     Affairs  of  moment  took  him  hence  a  while. 

Mabel.     Is  he  within  ?    He  has  not  left  the  house  ? 

Phy.     Soon  to  return. 

Mabel.     'Twas  strange  he  did  not  wait  till  I  Tevived, 
Nor  staid  to  say  farewell.     {Weeps.)     'Tis  not  his  wont 
To  quit  me  thus  abruptly.     I  remember  ■ 
He  spoke  of  seeing  Mordaunt.     (Servant  comes  down.) 
Heard  you  the  earl's  command  ?     Which  way  went  he  ? 

Servant.     Madam,  I  think -to  Richmond. 

Mabel.     {Rises.)     Go  straight  and  order  that  the  fleetest  steeds 
Be  harnessed  instantly.     Then  wait  a  while 
My  coming,  in  my  chamber.  {Exit  Maid  Servant,  c.  d.  l.) 

Check  surprise ;  I  must  depart  at  once  and  seek  the  earl. 

Phy.     'Tis  madness!     Think  not  that  your  shattered  frame 
Could  undergo  such  trial  of  its  strength  ! 

Mabel.     The  feelings  that  inspire  the  deep  resolve 
Can  grant  the  aid  to  execute.    1  must  go. 

Phy.     You  will  forgive  me  if  I  countermand 
Your  order  lately  given.  {Going,  C.  door.) 

Mabel.     Stay !  stay  !     {Rushing  to  him.     During  this,  catches  at 
back  of  chair  for  support.) 
'Tis  to  preserve  my  father  and  myself 
From  scorn,  from  ignominy,  from  repulse, 
I  venture  on  this  errand.     O,  just  Heaven  ! 
It  will  be  thought  we  have  devised  some  feint 
To  move  this  proud  man's  heart.     In  vain,  in  vain 
My  father  will  abase  himself. 
Do  you  deny  me  ?     Think  you  that  my  life 
Is  not  more  perilled  by  your  present  act 
Than  by  my  own  design  ?     What,  not  moved  yet  ? 
Behold  me  take  the  suppliant's  attitude.     {Kneels.') 


36  "  the  patrician's  daughter. 

I  do  implore  you  in  all  humbleness 

To  let  me  now  depart.     You  will  not  yet  ?     (Rises.") 

I  claim  my  right  of  motion  —  trample  on 

All  counsel  that  prescribes  subservience 

From  soul  to  its  poor  vassal.     I  command 

You  let  me  pass  iorthwith.     You  dare  not  brave  me. 

Phy.     What  supernatural  wrath  illumes  her  eye  ! 
She  speaks  sooth ;  the  greater  peril  lies  in  opposition. 
Madam,  your  will  has  way. 

Mabel.     Thanks,  thanks  ;  you  are  my  friend.     In  a  short 
Space  I  shall  expect  you  join  me.     Thanks  !     No  help. 

(Exeunt,  c.  D.  1.  h.) 


Scene  II.  —  Mordatjnt's  House.     Sofa  on  l.  h.  ;  table  and  two  chairs 

on  R.  H. 

Enter  Mordaunt,  r.  h. 

Mor.     I  know  not  whence  or  wherefore  there  hath  come 
This  woman's  weakness  o'er  my  yielding  soul ! 
My  deed  was  nobly  done ;  then  wherefore  is't 
That  I  am  not  at  peace  ?     Why  will  the  thought, 
Perchance,  she  may  have  loved  me  thus  intrude? 
Why  should  I  rack  my  soul  with  phantom  fears 
Bred  out  of  my  weak  pity  ? 
Can  it  be 

That  L  have  sought  revenge  and  called  it  justice  ? 
Beautiful  stars !  how  once  1  gazed  on  ye ! 
Ye  almost  seem  to  justify  ambition ; 
For  ye,  though  throned  in  loftiest  altitude, 
Have  yet  preeminence  in  purity  ! 
These  fancies  once  were  my  realities. 
All  Nature,  with  a  meaning  eloquence, 
Addressed  me  to  encourage  !     That  hath  passed, 
Yet  nature  is  the  same  in  outward  show  ; 
Each  man  makes  his  own  world  or  unmakes  it ; 
And  there  he  exiles  whom  no  kingly  edict, 
Nor  voice  of  law,  has  banished. 

Enter  Servant,  l.  h.  1  e. 

Ser.    The  Earl  of  Lynterae.     [Enter  the  Earl.    Exit  Servani, 

Earl.     Pardon,  Sir  Edgar,  that  I  venture  thus  [1  e.  L.  h.) 

To  break  on  your  retirement ;  but  my  cause 
Is  one  that  outruns  all  respect  of  forms. 

Mor.     A  country's  servant  knows  no  privacy 
That  bars  consideration  of  her  weal. 
I  pray  you  sit,  my  lord. 

Earl.     My  errand  is  not  public.     'Tis  not  now 
The  minister  who  claims  your  patient  ear, 


THE    PATRICIA.N'8    DAUGHTER.  37 

But  a  plain,  sorrowing  man,  whose  wounded  heart 
Your  skill  alone  can  heal.     To  be  brief, 
I  am  a  father  ;  let  that  word  tell  all. 

Mor.     The  father  of  a  daughter  !     Is  it  well 
We  should  discourse  of  her  ? 

Earl.     Tell  me  that  you  permit  it.     May  I  speak  ? 

Mor.     Of  her,  my  lord,  or  any  other  stranger, 
If  mention  of  a  name  delight  your  ear. 

Earl.     And  you  will  bear  with  me  —  you  will  be  patient  ? 

Mor.     Why  should  I  not  ?     What  man  is  there  so  well 
Can  bear  the  verbal  history  of  wrong 
As  he  who  hath  it  written  on  his  heart  ? 
If  you  recite  the  past,  you  will  not  grave 
The  inward  record  deeper.     And  its  trace 
Endures,  though  you  be  silent. 

Earl.     O  sir,  repulse  me  not,  for  love  of  mercy. 
Say  that  you  retain  some  gentle  thought, 
Some  tender  recollection 

Mor.     Of  your  daughter  ?    My  lord,  she  has  my  pity. 

Earl.     What !     No  more  ? 
Ah,  sir,  I  watched  Mabel  many  a  time, 
When  accident  has  held  you  longer  space 
Than  was  your  wont  to  tarry,  quit  her  chair, 
And  by  the  hour  watch  in  love's  deep  suspense, 
Pale,  fixed,  and  mute  —  a  very  statue  ; 
But  when  the  tramp  of  thy  approaching  steed 
Broke  on  her  ear  —  for  that  love-quickened  sense 
Anticipated  sight  —  she  woke  to  life, 
As  though  thy  safety  gave  her  leave  to  be, 
Rushed  forth  to  meet  thee,  but  stopped  bashfully 
To  wait  thine  entrance  with  downcast  lids, 
Which  vainly  tried  to  hide  the  lucid  joy 
Floating,  like  sunshine,  in  the  orbs  beneath. 

Mor.     What  is  your  story's  sequel  ?     What  succeeds  ? 

Earl.     You  loved  her  once  ! 

Mor.     I  did  ;  and  since  it  pleases  you,  I  speak. 
It  shall  be  to  such  purpose  as  to  wring, 
Even  from  your  confession,  that  my  act 
Was  one  of  justice,  not  of  cruelty. 
I  loved  her  once  !     Ay,  she  was  then  to  me 
The  incorporated  spirit  of  all  good. 
My  soul's  once  science  was  to  study  her  ; 
Her  eyes  were  all  my  light,  her  voice  my  music, 
Her  movements  all  I  cared  to  know  of  grace. 
Loved  her  !     'Twas  worship  !    'Twas  idolatry  ! 
And  how  was  I  repaid  ?     The  meanest  man 
Who  has  nor  wealth,  nor  talent,  nor  distinction, 
Giving  his  heart,  proffers  the  dearest  gift 
His  Maker  gave  to  him,  and  meriting, 
Even  when  not  accepted,  gratitude  ! 
I  was  not  such  a  one  ;  in  the  world's  van 
4 


38  THE  patrician's  daughter. 

I  stood  distinguished  and  preeminent ! 

I  gave  my  heart,  my  mind,  unto  your  daughter, 

Of  -which  she  feigned  acceptance,  not  hy  -words, 

But  by  confession  far  more  eloquent. 

I  pressed  the  love  she  favored  ;  she  repulsed  it ! 

She  trampled  on  it !     It  was  glowing  lire  ; 

She  trod  it  into  ashes  ! 

Earl.     It  -was  not  so  ;  but  hear  me. 

Mor.     It  is  too  late. 

Earl.     (Rises.)     I  do  implore  you,  then,  to  read  this  letter. 

(Mordaunt  takes  letter,  reads,  and  speaks.) 

Mor.     If  this  be  true,  it  does  pronounce  me  guilty ; 
Yet  may  this  not  turn  out  a  fine  device  ? 

(Mabel  enters  and  rushes  to  the  Earl,  1  e.  l.) 

Mabel.     My  father  ! 

Earl.     My  child  !     Read  there  the  answer  to  your  doubt. 

Mor.     'Tis  evidence  that  stabs,  while  it  convicts. 
Why  knew  I  not  this  sooner  ? 
O  Mabel,  how  I've  wronged  thee  !     (Kneels  to  her.) 

Mabel.     What  words  are  these  ?     I  came  here  to  forbid 
Vain  supplication  to  a  haughty  heart, 
And  lo  !  I  find  one  meek  and  penitent. 
And  dost  thou  love  me,  Mordaunt  ? 

Mor.     Love  thee,  Mabel ! 
My  care-worn  heart  revives  at  sight  of  thee, 
And  hoards  the  life  'twas  weariness  to  keep. 
How  now !  thou  tremblest,  sweet ! 

Mabel.     Love  !  aid  me  to  my  chair  ; 
My  strength  is  failing  fast ;  I  am  as  one 
Who  has  striven  hard  to  distance  grief,  and  gained 
The  goal  before  her,  my  strength  but  sufficing 
To  win  the  triumph.     Mordaunt,  I  shall  die 
With  thy  love  for  my  chaplet,  and  in  peace  ! 

Mor.     And  thou  wilt  live  in  peace  for  many  years  ! 
What  demon  gives  my  fear-struck  heart  the  lie  ! 

Mabel.     I've  much  to  say,  and  but  brief  time  to  speak  it* 
Thou  knowest  note  I  love  thee  ;  but  thou  canst  not, 
Thou  canst  not  tell  how  deeply.     That  our  lips 
Should  so  belie  our  hearts  !     Couldst  thou  read  mine        - 

Mor.     Or  thou  read  mine  ;  the  thoughts  of  agony 
Remorse  sears  on  it  with  a  brand  of  fire ! 

Mabel.     O,  couldst  thou  know  how  often  in  my  walks 
My  soul  drank  gladness  from  the  thought  that  thou 
Wouldst  share  them  with  me,  and  the  beautiful 
Grow  brighter  as  thy  voice  interpreted 
Its  hidden  loveliness  ;  and  our  fireside ! 
How  I  should  greet  thee  from  the  stormy  war 
Of  public  conflict,  kneel  beside  thy  chair, 
And  cause  thee  bend  thine  eyes  on  mine,  until 
Thy  brow  expanded,  and  thy  lips  confessed 
The  blessedness  of  home  ! 


THE    PATRICIAN'S    DAUGHTER.  3 

Mor.     Home,  sayest  thou  ?     Home  ! 
Home !    That  means  Grave. 

Mabel.     My  fate  is  gentler,  love, 
Than  I  had  dared  to  hope.     I  shall  not  live 
Encircled  by  thine  arms  ;  but  I  may  die  so. 

Mor.     I  cannot  bear  it ;   O,  I  cannot  bear  it. 
Fool  !    fool !     Not  to  know  the  vengeance  of  forgiveness ! 

Earl.     You  see,  sir,  that  the  wound  is  deep  enough. 

Mabel.     Nay,  speak  not  harshly  ;  for  in  noble  minds 
Error  is  suffering,  and  we  should  soothe 
The  breast  that  bears  its  punishment  within. 
Tell  him  that  you  forgive  him.     Do  not  pause. 
Think  not  thy  affluent  affection  now, 
That  hitherto  outran  my  need  in  granting  — 
Dimness  floats  before  me.     While  I  yet 
Can  hear  your  voice,  tell  me  that  you  forgive  him. 

(Mabel  has  now  raised  herself,  and  stayids  erectJ) 

Earl.     I  do,  I  do  ! 

Mabel.     Now  take  him  to  your  arms, 
And  call  him  son.     (SAe  staggers  to  Edgar.) 

Earl.     I  do,  I  do  !     My  son,  my  son! 

Mor.     My  father  ! 

Mabel.     I  am  happy — very,  very  happy  !     (Dies.) 


Mabee. 


P..  H 


L.  H. 


CURTAIN. 


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